A Mere Acquaintance, Holmes
by Marylin-John-Doe
Summary: Set two years after The Reichenbach Fall, a mysterious acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes visits with every ounce of revenge in mind. T rating given due to swearing. The first story uploaded onto this site by yours truely. All feedback is appreciated and I do not own the characters of Sherlock, only the OC is mine. :)
1. Chapter 1 - A Few Queries

Set two years after The Reichenbach Fall, a mysterious acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes visits with every ounce of revenge in mind.

"You need to stop this, Jim. It's getting out of hand!" bellowed a female voice, the voice cracking slightly at the tone.

"Why stop when I'm having such fun?" replied Moriarty, sipping at his wine glass.

"People have died Jim. How the fuck do you find fun in that?"

"It's not that I don't _want_ to stop, honey. Sherlock is just making it too easy for me and I can't resist."

The host of the female voice came closer to Jim and his head recoiled a tad. Feminine features were revealed – a soft nose outlining the edge of her face and plump red lips shone out from the darkness.

"Then push him to the limit."

It was early in the morning for Sherlock and John, and the two of them sat at the table in the kitchen, attempting to clear what was left of Sherlock's recent experiment.

"What were you even trying to make with all these…samples?" questioned John, holding a dead mouse by the tale and slowly and carefully squeezing it into a beaker. Over the time he had been with Sherlock, John had become less surprised when he found dead animals in the fridge or, in similar situations such as this, on the kitchen table. He was never reluctant to help clear the blood or chemical fluid from the floor or, in some cases, the walls.

"Don't question it John. I was merely seeing if mice could survive in highly unstable acids." Sherlock replied. He appeared relaxed, just reading the paper whilst he waited for his tea to cool down.

Judging from the dead mouse, John suspected that the conclusion of his friend's experiment was that, no, mice could not survive in highly unstable acids, but John refused to ask what acidic liquids Sherlock had put the poor creature in.

"I have no idea why you gave this newspaper, John. It's so boring. Nothing of any interest whatsoever." Sherlock began. "People are so boring, with their mundane tales of debauchery in parliament, to their pathetic and completely unsatisfying stories of how they became one with the spiritual world."

"It sounds interesting to me." John disagreed. "Tales of debauchery and the paranormal. It opens our eyes to how corrupt but spectacular the world can be."

Sherlock glared at John, his eyes dimmed down upon him.

"Mrs. Hudson has some books on the paranormal if you care to take a look." Sherlock said. John stared up at him. He was surprised Sherlock didn't even comment on how idiotic he thought John was for even finding such a topic interesting. So, John made his way to the threshold of the archway, but as he walked towards the apartment door to go downstairs, Mrs. Hudson was blocking his path with some books. Coincidently, some were on the topic of ghosts and haunted houses from what could be seen of the darkened leather covers and the dust that had settled on top.

"I just thought I'd bring some of these books up here." Mrs. Hudson explained. "I found them in a box, just lying around waiting to be opened. I thought you boys might want to relax and share a tale with each other."

As John took hold of the pile of books from Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock emerged from the kitchen and rested his arm on the wall.

"Or sell them." He suggested. "John likes money, and as much as these books would come at a cheap price, he'd just love to have a bit of money in his pocket."

John looked up at Sherlock, as he struggled with the heavy load of books. He almost felt guilty for Mrs. Hudson, carrying the books all the way up the stairs. He placed the pile down on the desk. The landlady was about to leave until she turned back.

"By the way, there's a woman downstairs who wishes to speak with you."

Sherlock gazed towards John who was rummaging through the books. Just as he went for the door to go see this woman, he heard footsteps climb up.

"Sorry to disturb you, but I have a few queries about your service." A female voice spoke out. The woman had her head in her bag as if she was looking for something, so Sherlock could not see her face.

"Please come in." Sherlock hesitantly said and he led the woman into his abode. As he closed the door behind her, she whipped out some eye drops, lifted her head up high and applied them.

"I do apologise." She said. "I couldn't see properly with my eyes in such a state."

As the woman returned the eye drops into her leather bag, she raised herself up to meet Sherlock with a better introduction.

"Good morning." She politely said. She reached out a hand to greet.

The woman was young, in her early twenties. Her face was round, her hair was a light brown colour, worn as loosened ringlets, she didn't have much make up, but it didn't affect her. She was naturally pretty, and her pale skin did not ruin this. Sherlock noticed the dress that snuggly fit onto her curved, slim body. She was donned in a blue pencil dress, which ended just above the knee. From what Sherlock could she of her, he deduced she was a business woman to some extent. Her choice of a non-provocative dress told him that she was not seductive, and just her facial features showed this. She did not appear to Sherlock as someone who would seduce in aim to get to her goals.

"Please, sit." Sherlock said after he shook her hand. He forced a small smile and gestured over to one of the chairs by the fire and she sat down, holding her dress to prevent it from riding up her body.

"I'm Evelyn, by the way. Evelyn Stowe. But you can call me Eve." She smiled.

John looked over at Eve, his eyes pierced onto the back of her head. She had not acknowledged his existence. John stopped skimming the books and went in front of her. She jumped a little at the sight of him.

"You startled me." She said, holding a hand to her chest.

"Sorry. The name's John Watson." He replied. He approached her more cheerily than Sherlock had done, and Sherlock made mental notes in his head. John had told him to be more positive towards people.

"Oh. You don't need to tell me who you two are." She giggled. "I've heard so much about you two over the years."

Sherlock and John exchanged glances.

"It was lovely to meet you, but I think we need more milk." John said suddenly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Obviously, John wanted to preoccupy himself to leave Sherlock and Eve to talk. Either that, or Sherlock had used all the milk for his last experiment. As he left the apartment, Eve stared at Sherlock.

"So, you're the great Sherlock Holmes?" she began. A smirk grew on her face; she leant back unto the chair, and suddenly appeared more hostile. "I must say you're quite the inspiration to me."

Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond, so he didn't reply. Instead of waiting for an answer, Eve lifted her bag further up her lap and pulled out red lipstick. She slowly and sensually applied it onto her lips, making them plump.

"Y'know, Sherlock. I knew a man like you. He often got bored with every aspect of life." She paused, took out a mirror and checked her lips for any flaws. "Sadly, he passed two years ago. Tragic really, a gunshot to the head."

Sherlock knew who she was talking about. There was no doubt she was describing the late Jim Moriarty.

"Who are you, and what do you want." Sherlock asked. The two of them now had their eyes frowned upon each other.

"Mr. Holmes, I am merely trying to indulge in a conversation with you about a man I once knew. There's surely a lack of harm in that." She replied. "But, before you ask me if Evelyn Stowe is my real name, I can assure you that it is."

"What's your purpose, however?"

"Like I said, I have queries about your service."


	2. Chapter 2 - Mixed Emotions

Eve rose from her seat and paced the room, not taking her eyes off of Sherlock. It was unclear what her intentions were, but Sherlock could not let his guard down. If she had been spending time with Moriarty, it was more than likely she has risen to his level, taken him on as a mentor or an idol. But Sherlock couldn't look too far into this. After a short silence, Eve finally spoke.

"How much do you charge?" she asked. "Is it based on what the case is, or do you just charge whatever you feel is reasonable?"

"I charge nothing for my services. There is no reason to." Sherlock replied.

"Oh, yes of course!" she placed her hand on her forehead. "I forgot. It's just a hobby you do. Something to cure your boredom."

"What were you intending I solve?"

Eve sat herself down and almost looked grimaced.

"People are going to die." She said, her eyes suddenly becoming sullen, but a small smirk developed onto her pale face.

"_Mixed emotions"_ Sherlock thought.

"How did you know Moriarty?" Sherlock abruptly asked.

Eve seemed surprised since she assumed he would ask what she meant by people dying. At the question, she looked down. Her facial expression changed from mischievous to mournful.

"He was a mere acquaintance, Holmes." She lifted her head and Sherlock noticed a slight tear falling down her cheek.

Sherlock adjusted himself in his chair. He knew he had hit a delicate subject and did not wish to proceed. As much as this woman came across as an enemy, she had not shown any signs of a murderer. There was nothing to prove that she was going to harm Sherlock or his friends.

"What did you mean by people are going to die?" He asked.

"It's what people do, isn't it?" Eve replied, in a sorrowful tone. "They just go and die on you."

She headed for the door, wiping her face.

"I'll stay in touch."

She left the room, leaving Sherlock puzzled. He believed she initially came to visit him to threaten, but because he had mentioned Moriarty, by his name rather than someone he once knew, it had caused her to explode quite a bit in emotions. Sherlock sat with his fingers rubbing his chin. Who was this woman who had appeared in his life all of a sudden and what was she seeking from him? A secret lover of Jim Moriarty was ruled out. Through his obsession with the consulting detective, he would have had no time for a relationship. Eve must have been close to Moriarty to shed tears and look so gloomy. Sherlock was truly bewildered with this woman.

John finally arrived home. He saw that Evelyn had gone, and this made John rather disappointed. To him, she seemed like a really nice person to get along with and he wanted to know more about her. John walked into the kitchen and placed the milk onto the table which still had leftovers from Sherlock's experiment.

"Sherlock!" he shouted from the kitchen. Without any reply, John wandered into the front room to see Sherlock lying on the sofa, his gaze glued to the ceiling.

"You called?" Sherlock murmured.

"When did that woman leave?" John asked.

Sherlock turned his head to face John.

"Half an hour ago" Sherlock answered. "Where were you?"

"I was caught up in something."

Sherlock stared back up to the ceiling. He was tired and needed rest, but had decided not to retire before John returned. John stood up skimming the pages of his new paranormal book but he was interrupted.

"Did Moriarty appear to you as someone who'd have a lover?" Sherlock asked. He was doubting his passed opinions on the matter.

"I haven't really thought about his love life to be honest with you, Sherlock." John wasn't certain to where his friend was going with this. "Are you suggesting that Eve was -"

"Affiliated with him sexually?" Sherlock interrupted. "No. But we can't rule it out."

John was confused. He was unsure of what had occurred between Sherlock and Eve when he was not present. John bent down to Sherlock.

"What did she say to make you think that?"

Sherlock didn't answer and instead dwelled in his thoughts. He wasn't afraid of Eve by any means. He was just keen to seek out who she was.


	3. Chapter 3 - Misreading and Misfortune

**A/N: Paragraphs in unquoted _italics _are flashbacks. (The first paragraph of Chapter One is also a flashback, I just forgot to make it so :D) **

John carelessly strolled down Baker Street, watching the bustle of London's recognisable characteristics: the ignorant pedestrians keeping to themselves, the black cabs competing to grab a customer and the pigeons overhead painting the pathways in white. It was just an ordinary day and John hadn't noticed anything particularly out of place. As he approached a lonely letter box to send off some important papers, he could feel an uneasy presence. He swung around to see a black car he knew so well. Casually, he walked up to it and got in.

"Hello John." Said a very exhausted Mycroft. He appeared to be rather nervous or anxious to some extent. Anthea sat beside John and, as usual, was on her phone.

"You know, Mycroft, you could speak to your brother from time to time. I'm not the only one who lives on this street." John replied.

Mycroft looked around him cautiously, even though it was difficult to see out through the darkened windows.

"It's not that simple when your brother has more enemies than one would first expect." Mycroft whispered. This was not like him at all. You'd think a man with such power in London would not be so high-strung, especially one with so much security. John grew concerned for both brothers.

"What do you mean? Is he in danger?" John asked. He was eager to know what the problem was.

"Unfortunately, yes. " Mycroft answered, wiping his brow with a cloth. He was sweating a great amount. "It seems Moriarty had left some morsels behind."

John scrunched his face up in bewilderment.

"You need to warn Sherlock. Or else he'll end up at St. Bartholomew's as a patient." Anthea said forebodingly.

"Warn him what?" John questioned.

"That misreading will be his misfortune." Mycroft breathed.

John exited the car. He was very distrustful of Mycroft for some strange reason and felt that the loyal servant of Her Majesty was not himself. But this was due to him being so dark and secretive. John observed as the car drove off, blending in with the rest of the city.

Meanwhile, at 221B, Sherlock was becoming more and more interested in Evelyn's identity. He had searched her name several times, but got nowhere. He wrapped himself tightly in his white duvet, covering himself completely. It was cold, but he was too infatuated with his current predicament. Sherlock began to scroll down the search results and there it was. A lead! He gave out an excited yelp.

"_Evelyn Stowe was a TV presenter who worked alongside award-winning actor Richard Brook. Stowe was originally to appear with Brook on numerous children's television shows after his success as 'The Storyteller', however, two weeks before their debut as a duo, Stowe was found dead at her home in North London. Forensics report said that her death was caused by an overdose of antihistamine."_

Sherlock tapped on the screen in joy. The story of Evelyn Stowe might appear sad to some, but Sherlock was far from sad. Sherlock contemplated and began to live in his thoughts. The connection between Evelyn and Moriarty was obvious, but supposedly she had died. It made barely any sense. If Evelyn Stowe was working with Richard Brook, then she was working with Moriarty, but she was cut from the picture. Sherlock had never met or even seen Eve before this time. She was also using her real name, unlike Moriarty who used a completely different persona to make him genuine. It was clear that she wasn't afraid to get found out. Sherlock was pleased with himself and this gave him something to do. Now all he needed to do was contact Evelyn again. He wanted answers from her, but she had given him no card or phone number to get in touch. Suddenly, John came into the room, holding bags full of shopping.

"Sherlock, we need to talk." He said in desperation.

"Not now, John. " Sherlock replied, re-reading Evelyn's biography. John came over to see what his friend was looking at.

"Sherlock, stop! This is the exact reason why I need to talk to you!"

"Look, if it's not about Evelyn Stowe -"

"But it is! You need to be careful! Mycroft said that misreading will lead to misfortune."

"John, I am perfectly capable of preserving myself from misfortune."

John sat down next to his friend, who still covered himself in his white duvet.

"Evelyn Stowe worked with Moriarty. I know the dangers, but I haven't had a case in weeks. I'm bored John. And she's the only thing I can focus on now." Sherlock wrapped his duvet around him even tighter. John could see that the great consulting detective was afraid, and he knew that Evelyn was bad news.

* * *

_Evelyn glared at Jim with bleakness. He was content and didn't need help from someone as puny and weak as Eve. He would be happy just to kill her and be done, but he knew what he was doing to her. She didn't love him or desire him (he wasn't her type). She just cared for him a great deal and Moriarty being the sod that he is played with that. He had twisted her round his finger, had her following his every word and it made him reek with pleasure. He will be rather upset once she was to be used as a human bomb, but there were plenty of other women who he could manipulate very easily like he had done with Eve. She thought she was applying for a simple job as a secretary at first, but when he asked her to scout London for potential victims, people who would be missed a great amount, she became fearful. But, overtime, she found satisfaction from working for Moriarty, adopted his mannerisms and laughed and joked about Sherlock and his brother. He had tricked her, locked her into a place of trust and then made her worthless. Moriarty meet her gaze, gave a little wink and she replied with a fake smile. She knew his game as much as he knew her weaknesses._


	4. Chapter 4 - Elegance and Murder

Sherlock became paranoid over the next few days after he had found out about Eve. However, he was not concerned about his own well-being but rather his friends'. Moriarty had threated Sherlock with snipers before, and there was a chance that Evelyn Stowe would do the same. But then again, she had not made her intentions clear and without a way to contact her, Sherlock was left in despair. As he lay on the sofa, thinking of what to do, a tune blurted out from his phone. It was Lestrade.

After a hasty conversation, Sherlock ran out of the apartment, got into the nearest cab he could find (to the misfortune of an elderly woman) and texted John.

* * *

John approached a Georgian terrace house. It was white, with colourful flowers in pots by the door. There, stood Sally Donovan, who had let Sherlock into the building with reluctance. John stepped towards her.

"Sherlock is already in there contaminating the crime scene with his idiocy." She scoffed.

Having ignored her, John entered the building and was greeted with a bright interior. Paintings and photos of friends and family covered the walls, foreign rugs spread across the wooden panelled floor and a chandelier glittering in silver elegance hung from the ceiling. He was amazed at how decorated and glamorous the room was. But as he turned the corner, all he saw was white from the coats the forensic team wore, one of which was Anderson who was dangling over a body, examining. And above him was Sherlock, with his fingers clenching onto the bridge of his nose. Moving closer, John could see the body was that of a female, who donned a red coat and a black ballroom gown. She looked as classy as the room she was dead in.

"There are no marks on the body suggesting contact with a blade. No bullet holes. I'd say this was down to the consumption of something, but a full examination of the body should prove that." Anderson explained, moving the limbs of the elegant corpse that lay before him.

Sherlock took his eyes off of the body and was now searching the corners of the room for clues.

"You took your time to get here, John." Sherlock began.

John watched as Sherlock bent down to pick up small pieces of nothing.

"Well, when you're trying to scan milk into a self-service checkout counter, checking your phone is the last thing you do." John replied.

Sherlock chuckled under his breath. John was never good at scanning his items in at the supermarket. But as he chuckled, something caught his eye. A small bottle was hiding in a hole right in the corner of the room. He reached his fingers in and grabbed it. Reading the label, he stood up and strolled over to John, who had been casually staring over the body.

"Eye drops." He said, handing the bottle to his friend.

"And how is this of any significance?"

"It's lying in the corner of the room to be hidden, but done so that it should be found after a good search."

John nodded in approval and queried to himself as to why he didn't think of that.

* * *

The next morning, Molly got started at the morgue to examine the unidentified body. The exact age of the woman was unknown, but she was guessed to be in her mid-thirties. No one came up to Scotland Yard to make a witness statement and when neighbours were asked who lived in the house, where the glamorous woman was found, they had no answers. Molly unzipped the body bag to reveal a bare corpse. The face was pale and emotionless, but Molly was used to this. She had pulled so many corpses from their cold, icy chambers and had cut them open to reveal all kinds of curious reasons for their existence. She had found blades, bullets, residue and some bizarre objects lodged in between the bone ladders that protected the complex organs. Molly began to work, taking samples of blood neatly. There was no need to slice the woman open, as Anderson explained there was no entrance wound. This, of course, made Molly's job much easier.

After a while, Sherlock and John entered the morgue and instantly recognised the body. Sherlock almost skipped his way to it, his hands cupped behind his back with John following close behind him.

"So, Molly. What have you discovered?" he asked, leaning in close to the naked woman.

Molly's heart jumped a little at Sherlock's voice.

"Antihistamine." She replied. "There were traces of it in her blood. I'm certain this was the cause of death."

John began to think thoroughly. He remembered Sherlock finding that possible important clue.

"The eye drops!" he exclaimed. "Antihistamine is sometimes used in them."

Sherlock had forgotten about the eye drops, which was ironic since he was the one who found them. In response, he pulled them out from his pocket that John had generously returned.

"Can you see if there are any traces of it in this bottle?" he asked Molly, holding the bottle out in front of her.

"Sure!" she agreed. She now had a big smile upon her face, both corners of her mouth touching her cheeks.

As she turned her back on the pair, Sherlock whispered into John's ear.

"Eve. She was applying eye drops when she came to visit."

"So, do you think-"

"That this was her work? I wouldn't put it past her."

"But why?"

"To send a message." Sherlock began to wipe his brow with his scarf. "People are going to die, she told me, because that's what people do."

Molly swung back around to face the two men who stood before her. They looked back in delight to her discovery.

"Antihistamine is present in the bottle. But it wouldn't be enough to kill somebody if just drunk from here." She informed. "It would only kill from an overdose of pills."

* * *

Sherlock watched as Molly zipped the body bag up and rode the covered corpse back into the chamber it belonged to.

"So, Sherlock. Do you recognise her?" she asked.

She obviously remembered when he identified Irene Adler's 'corpse' and judging from how much female attention Sherlock gets, one would assume he had seen plenty of living naked women. He shook his head, and smiled a bit. He was flattered, really. He hardly ever considered himself attractive, but Molly had shown that this was a possibility. He daren't ask of John's opinion on the matter. Sherlock left the morgue as if he had forgotten he had brought John with him, who was now fiddling with beakers and test tubes. After realising the consulting detective was already on the move, John rushed out of the morgue, waving goodbye to Molly, who still had plenty of dead humans to cut open and explore.


	5. Chapter 5 - Two Women, One Dead Body

**A/N: I just want to quickly mention this, because it might seem a bit confusing to some, but this story will probably not seem plausible with the upcoming series three. This story is set in a universe where Sherlock returned, Moriarty was found out (thus, clearing Sherlock's name) and life went on as normal. So there's no Mary Morstan, to those who might be wondering if John got married whilst Sherlock was gone in this little alternative universe of mine. I hope this makes the story less confusing. :) **

* * *

John sat in Speedy's Café, drinking the last few drops of his tea. Whilst he drank, a headline in the newspaper grasped his attention.

"_Unidentified woman found dead in London house."_

John read on, and what he read came to more of a concern rather than a surprise.

"_The unidentified woman was found dead by police thanks to unknown sources informing them of her location. Scotland Yard have said that the crime scene was once the home of fictional TV presenter, Evelyn Stowe, who supposedly worked alongside the late criminal mastermind, James 'Jim' Moriarty, however after further research into her, she was declared to be non-existent and was merely a character that Moriarty had created to make his persona 'Richard Brook' appear more genuine. Police are now considering this as a lead."_

John continued to read, no more was written about Eve, but just has he was about to roll the paper to take to Sherlock, a young woman entered the café. Her curled, light brown hair bounced behind her as she approached the front counter. John watched her distinctive red lips as she talked to the man at the counter who was also watching her them, taking in her words, memorising her drink order. Her voice was rather quiet, but sweet and sounded wonderful to all. After she had finished, she turned her head slightly to smirk at John who was still looking at her with both arousal and suspicion. He panicked as he found himself caught in her gaze, so he quickly grabbed his newspaper and began reading inside, trying to distract himself. But he felt uncomfortable and didn't feel like he was alone on his table. Pulling the paper down, there she was. Evelyn Stowe. She was smiling, twirling a small curl within her fingers.

"Why, hello, Dr. John Watson. Funny seeing _you_ here!" she exclaimed, sitting down opposite him. "I must say, you look rather dashing today."

She was obviously unaware that John knew all about her from what Sherlock had told him. She must've thought that the situation was between only her and Sherlock. But then again, this was someone who worked with Moriarty after all, so John shouldn't assume.

"Thankyou." He smiled, but tried to ignore her somewhat. He didn't want her to see any weaknesses he might have.

"I've been thinking John." She said, nodding thanks to the man at the counter for bringing her drink to the table. "I swear I met you before I came over that day."

"Oh, do you now?" John was still trying to read, just to look busy.

"Yeah. I think was a while ago." She began to sip her drink carefully. "At a pool, I believe."

At that moment, John lowered his paper right down to his lap. He became slightly more nervous and anxious, similar to how Mycroft was the other day.

"Well, I don't swim much." He replied.

"No, you weren't swimming at all. You were just sitting there." Eve began to chuckle. "I'm sure you were, because I had a pretty good view."

John started to remember that day, when Sherlock had saved him. It was the time when they first confronted Moriarty. Multiple snipers had aimed their guns, pointed them towards both of their chests.

Eve interrupted John's reminiscence.

"I have no idea why you hang around with a man like Sherlock Holmes. He just drags you place to place, murder to murder. It's rather - ."

"Are you saying you were one of the snipers?" John didn't want her to change the subject onto him and Sherlock. This was his chance to get answers from Eve, not try to defend his friend.

"What do you think?" She was now leaning in close to John, with a delightful, big smile.

John gulped. The thought of her aiming her little, red dot onto his chest, with the power to end his life at Moriarty's command made him shudder. But Eve saved him more worry by getting up and making her way to the café door. She had made a point clear: that she was not to be messed with. But there was still an ounce of innocence within her, which both Sherlock and John failed to realise.

* * *

_It's a simple job, honey. Just drive around London and find some poor sod to strap to a bomb. I have no idea why making such a fuss about it. I mean c'mon! How boring can you get!" Jim was trying to coax Evelyn into doing what he described as a simple task, one that she'd get used to the more she did it. _

"_I don't want to, Jim. I just...it's not right. You can't just put someone in that position, awaiting death and all that." She replied, clutching her arm in fear. Jim had shown his monstrous side, finally, but she wasn't expecting it. _

"_Look, if you don't do this, I might as well put a bomb on that pretty body of yours. Maybe I'll even burn your heart out and send it to Sherlock Holmes for an early Christmas present!" Jim replied, with an angry tone in his voice. He was chewing at his gum, looking up and down Eve. He was eager to be rid of her, as she had shown no use at all. All she had done was acted as his secretary instead of dealing with the more important matters to hand that she was not keen to be a part of. _

"_No! Please…" she tried to look for mercy from Jim, but he was offering none. _

_Evelyn held onto the steering wheel tightly, her palms covered in sweat. She had to do this, not only because it was her job, but her life was at stake. She thought about just driving out of London to escape, however, fear took over. He would find her and, like he said, burn her heart out and send it to Sherlock Holmes. She could go and ask Sherlock for help, but having not met him, she was unsure. Whatever she did, it wouldn't stop Jim being a madman. _

* * *

"So, Evelyn was there at the pool. She was one of the snipers, and to be specific, she was aiming at you?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, but not only that, the house where that woman was found, it was the home of Evelyn Stowe, the TV presenter that is." John replied, placing the newspaper in front of his friend.

Sherlock skimmed the article, grasping the only important bits of information.

"According to that article, the police said that she was just an extra character that Moriarty made up, to make his Richard Brook more real." Said John, pointing to the newspaper as Sherlock read.

"But, was there anyone playing the part…" Sherlock murmured. "Did Moriarty intend for Eve to play that presenter? Was she in on the plan, and if so, why did Moriarty kill her off in his story? There's so many questions that I need to ask her!" Sherlock flailed his arms in frustration.

"Look, can't you just stay away, Sherlock? Quite frankly, she's a waste of time!"

Sherlock ignored him. He was too wrapped up in the case to care. He rubbed his temples in a circular motion. He was stressed, scared, anxious and desperate all at the same time and it was driving him crazy! He felt like Eve had something up her sleeve, but he wasn't certain if it would benefit him, or destroy him. And even if it was to destroy him, why? Was she jealous of Sherlock? Probably. She appeared to be a devout follower of Jim Moriarty from what he had learnt from her. To help him stay focused, Sherlock spread a large sheet of paper onto the wall, sticking it on tightly with tape. He compiled all the information he had. Two women, one fictional, one real. Both worked with Moriarty or his second persona Richard Brook in some way. One dead body. Same method of death and same house where the fictional woman was found. Antihistamine: killed both the fictional Evelyn Stowe and the unidentified woman, but was also found in the eye drops the real Evelyn Stowe uses, who was one of the snipers who aimed at John after the confrontation with Moriarty. Sherlock jumped back, revising what he had written in blue marker pen. It told him nothing new, but it was a start. John came up behind him.

"So, what do we do now? Talk to Lestrade?" he suggested.

"No. Now, we need to find the morsel that Moriarty left behind."


	6. Chapter 6 - Amanda the Receptionist

Evelyn flicked through the pages of her scrapbook, which she had made to keep track of all the activities that she and Moriarty had endured. It was far from complete. There were still blank pages that were to be filled with snippets of articles from numerous newspapers, photos that she had taken of warehouses, offices and several other places that Moriarty had done business in. But without a man to take her to these places and share such memories, Eve was left with an incomplete scrapbook that would never be finished. She stared at the words of each page she turned and found small tear drops sink into the paper. She rubbed her cheek to remove the tears that flowed, but it didn't hide the hate she felt for Jim. As much as that man had been sweet and charming, the last few weeks of his life had been full of betrayal, deception and pain on Evelyn's end. She just wanted to get over him and what he had done to her, but she couldn't. He had burned into her mind and toyed with every emotion he could get a hold of. And it was all done so he could play the game with Sherlock Holmes. Evelyn closed the scrapbook in disgust, shutting out the many memories of Moriarty she had in physical form. Doing so lifted a weight off of her. She was alone in her apartment; no one could contact her, which meant no distractions or interruptions. She need not worry about the consulting detective or his friend. It was her time to relax.

She walked into her bathroom and began to run the shower, slipped out of the dressing gown she had been wearing to unveil a bare body and looked into the mirror. Her make-up had run a little, leaving a black trail down to her cheeks. Although she did not wear much make up, it was noticeable. She rubbed off the red lipstick she was so fond of. Moriarty said it suited her, and because he was so manipulative, she believed him. Evelyn then stepped into the shower and embraced the warmth that ran through her body. She massaged her curls into the water, making them lose their appearance. Her hair was naturally straight and she hated it. It took effort to look good in her mind. As she encircled herself within the liquid that surrounded her, she heard a noise from outside the bathroom window. She peered outside of the shower door, as the water still ran down her body. The window was right by the shower, which many guests thought was an inappropriate placement for a window or a shower, taking into mind the dangers of the perverse. But she continued to have it like that, as she found tranquillity looking into the flower bush that sat outside. Unfortunately, there was no tranquillity in what she saw. The flower bush she found comfort in was invisible due to the darkness that loomed outside. Eve reached a hand out to turn the shower off leaving the room in a quiet state. She made no hesitation to get dressed into something comfortable, something that she could run fast in. She was not usually as paranoid as she was now; in fact, the only thing that made her this paranoid was Moriarty. But with him gone, she had no reason to be so concerned for herself. As she made her way to kitchen to observe the rest the windows, there was a sudden knock at the door. The frightened woman opened it with unwillingness, but not as wide as the person on the other side would have preferred. From the other side of the door, all that could be seen were Evelyn's eyes looking out from inside the house.

"Hello?" she breathed, fear lurking in her voice.

There was no response. She stepped outside carefully, looked around her and found no one. The truth is, Eve was _stuck _in a state of paranoia. There was no knock. It was all in poor Evelyn's mind. Thinking about the man who had given her a reason to be fearful, had begun to toy with her even in death. Evelyn breathed slowly to calm herself down, and walked back into her home where she still felt unnerved.

* * *

"No, Sherlock. I can't do that!" Lestrade said. He was irritated with Holmes, who has been asking for every detail on Jim Moriarty, from every file that the police had. He had tried other sources of information, but ended up talking to Lestrade, which was exactly what Sherlock didn't want to do.

"Look, we only pull out the files that matter and are relevant to current cases." Donovan explained.

Sherlock paced the room with anger. He couldn't tell the police about Evelyn Stowe, her involvement with Moriarty or the dead woman. He felt it was his duty to discover the truth, without direct help from others.

"For goodness sake! I need those files, Lestrade!"

"But why, Sherlock? What importance does Moriarty have anymore? He's dead. Y'know, you need to tell us if something has happened. We don't appreciate it when freaks like you take it upon themselves to solve these cases!" shouted Donovan. She had just about had it with Sherlock Holmes.

"Funny enough, i'm the only one who is able to solve them!" exclaimed Sherlock. The two of them were now having an inside argument about who was superior.

"Inspector Lestrade, sorry to disturb you but do have any cups that need cleaning?" interrupted a timid voice. A head was poking from outside of the office, through the door. Sherlock looked at her immediately as she made herself known. Her curls hung down from her scalp, her warming smile almost lightened the room.

"Here." Lestrade replied, stretching out two hands, offering the cups to her.

The woman entered the room. She was wearing a casual dark turquoise summer dress, which was perfect for the warm weather. She took the cups from Lestrade who gave her smile. The woman then turned around towards the door and as she did, she glanced over to Sherlock and gave him a wink before leaving.

"Who was she?" Sherlock asked, watching her walk, through the windows of the office.

"Amanda? She's just someone at reception. Handles the tea and coffee." Lestrade answered. "She's been here for about two months now. Nice girl."

"I see." Sherlock's eyes were still locked on Amanda as she stopped to collect other dirty cups.

"Sherlock?" said John, who had noticed his friend staring indefinitely.

Sherlock didn't reply. Instead, he moved closer to the windows, watching her every move. And then, she looked over to him, with a mischievous smile and waved with her pale fingers. Her actions didn't bother the people around her as if she wasn't there, but this didn't stop Sherlock from suddenly running out from the room and down the corridor. He heard his name being called and John following him far behind. Amanda was now speed walking down through the cubicles like it was a game of hide and seek. Sherlock followed her, raising his head above each division wall to see where she was. But before he knew it, she had walked down an empty corridor. He managed to catch up with her and got close. He put his hand on her shoulder and swung her around to face him.

"Did you have a cup that needs cleaning?" she joked.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. He had a feeling John was stuck in the cubicles so this was the perfect time for Sherlock to get answers without disturbance.

"I'm sorry, I don't know who you are!" she laughed. She gave Sherlock a menacing look and in return, Sherlock gave her a stern one. "I'm just a mere receptionist, Holmes."

Sherlock held her against the wall by the shoulders to stop her from escaping, not that she had any intention to do so.

"Y'know, Sherlock. I think that we need to take some time away from each other. We need the space because our relationship…" she gestured to Sherlock's hands against her shoulders."…is getting abusive, don't you think?"

Sherlock looked her in the eyes, and then down to her hands. She was holding a tray full of cups, all shapes and sizes. One of the cups was full, and inside, Sherlock could see a small white bottle. He took a single hand off of one of her shoulders, but tightened his grip on the other one to stop her from getting the upper hand. He put his fingers into the cup, and pulled out a bottle of eye drops. He shook it. It wasn't full.

"Antihistamine is a fine drug to overdose on." Eve replied as she admired the bottle in Sherlock's hand. "But who was the lucky one?"

Evelyn tilted her head towards the cubicles where many investigators and officers sat working. Sherlock stared back at her and she smiled, but her smile seemed to hide bleak emotions. Whatever she had done had a negative outcome; however, unlike Moriarty, she regretted it to some extent.


	7. Chapter 7 - Moriarty's Influence

Sherlock released his grapple on Evelyn. One would think he would bring her to Lestrade, announce her as an obvious criminal, but he did no such thing. He could see in her eyes that she was guilt-ridden, she felt angry at herself for doing whatever she had done. This is the reason why Sherlock released her. He realised that Eve had been tainted somehow, by whom was unknown. As much as she appeared to be psychopathic and proud of her murderous accomplishments, she was driven to do so, even though she didn't want to. Something ran through her mind as she did her evil deeds, a vile influence surrounded her.

Sherlock looked into her eyes, as they stood there in the empty corridor. He had almost forgotten, if he guessed correctly, that one of the investigators or officers were in danger and their chances of survival drifted away slowly as time went by. But Sherlock was captivated in Evelyn's gaze. It was far from agape love, but Sherlock felt some care for her as they stood in front of each other, their stares mingled together. But suddenly, a splash of warm tea drenched Sherlock's face, a loud crash as the tray of cups hit the floor and footsteps became quieter as Evelyn ran down the hallway. Sherlock glanced up from his arched back position and watched as she turned the corner. His instincts told him to chase her; however something more important dawned on him.

* * *

"There's someone in this building who's going to die!" declared Sherlock, storming back into Lestrade's office. John, Donovan and Lestrade stared at him, baffled. Sherlock was still covered in tea from when Evelyn splashed it at him.

"What do mean someone in this building is going to die?" asked Lestrade, walking towards Sherlock.

"Out there!" Sherlock pointed at the cubicles. There was no panic among those who sat there, so there was no one showing any sign of death just yet. "One of them as had antihistamine put into their coffee, probably pills. An overdose of pills to be exact."

"Sherlock, wouldn't someone notice if they took an overdose of pills accidently?" laughed John. He had failed to realise that Sherlock was being serious, as the whole situation seemed surreal to him.

"I didn't say accidental, John." Sherlock replied. "Remember our first case together? The victims were _forced_ to take the pill."

"But who would have forced them?" Donovan asked.

"Your receptionist. Amanda was it? Such a generic name. You'd think she'd be more creative in choosing one to trick you all." He answered.

"Amanda?! Well, where is she?" Lestrade questioned.

"Ran after throwing tea all over me." Sherlock said, examining his coat. "No worry though. Mrs. Hudson could clean it for me." He assured. He appeared to care more about his coat rather than the possible victim among them.

Everyone looked at each other except Sherlock. He was now looking outside the inside windows of the office, observing everyone who came and went.

"Donovan, call some men up here immediately, and call an ambulance as well!" Lestrade ordered.

"John, Lestrade. Search up and down these cubicles for any clue who might have taken the overdose. Check up on anyone who might be struggling for breath." Sherlock suggested.

John and Lestrade nodded, and exited the office. They began to search under unattended desks and chairs, telling people to do the same. Sherlock scouted the cubicles, checking on people before telling them join the search. Eventually, the entire floor was searching for this one person who might have overdosed including any clue to who it was and as time rode its course, Sherlock started to think that Evelyn had tricked him into believing someone was to die this day, in this building. But he was determined to prove his thoughts wrong.

* * *

"Sherlock, it's been two hours. No one has overdosed." Lestrade said, growing tired of what seemed like a never-ending search. He gestured to his men to get back to business.

Sherlock was distraught and rather humiliated. He found comfort knowing that everyone couldn't do a better job at him, but now Lestrade and his men had revealed him as a moron almost. John watched as Sherlock threw himself around in desperation, still eager to find the person, but it was no good. John patted his friend on back, who surprisingly accepted the comfort, and headed into the toilets.

He stood himself up close to the urinal to relieve himself, but became inattentive as a small whimpering sound emerged from one of the stalls. John cleaned up and then walked up to the stall.

"Hello?"

No reply, except the whimpering sound again. John repeated, but still no voice came from inside the stall. John wasn't sure if he should invade the person's privacy or not, but as the whimpering became more frequent, he brought it upon himself to intervene. He kicked open the locked door to be acquainted with a uniformed police officer, hanging over the bowl of the toilet. He look dreadfully ill, barely alive from what John could see.

"Help!" John shouted, peering out from the toilets. He might have been a doctor, but he dealt with bullet holes not overdoses.

The help that John had called for rushed into the room, accompanied by medics. Behind the crowd were Lestrade and Sherlock with a curious Donovan hiding behind. Sherlock pushed his way through the small mob of police officers and sat by the man who still hung over the toilet.

"We have no space, we need to drag him out of the stall." Said one of the medics.

John volunteered to pull the man out from the enclosed stall he was in, pushing back the crowd that surrounded it.

"What's your name, mate?" said one the medics, quickly looting his bag for something.

"His name is Geoff Peters. Police Constable, that is." Said another police officer, who looked greatly concerned for his colleague.

"Okay, Geoff. What did you take?" the medic asked.

"Antihistamine. Presumably pills. Just enough to kill him." Sherlock answered

The medic looked over to him, unimpressed with Sherlock's unwanted answer.

"I'd like Geoff here to answer, not you Sherlock Holmes." The medic scoffed, emphasising on the consulting detective's name. At least he was recognised.

"I don't think he will answer." John murmured, his fingers pressed into Geoff's neck. "He's dead."

The crowd looked amongst eachother; some one of them let out tears from their eyes.

* * *

"Great! Here's a headline for you! Scotland Yard fail to save one of their own!" Lestrade shouted, pacing around his office in anger. "Concern as police struggle to solve mystery overdoses!"

"I wouldn't worry, Inspector. There's plenty of press who'd rather interview me than the police." Sherlock boasted, examining a small pot that lay on the desk. He didn't appreciate the press, but Sherlock was pleased that he had proven Lestrade wrong. Even if it was John who had found him, there had indeed been a dying person in the building and Sherlock was delighted.

"It's okay for you! We now need to deal with a crime scene in the place you'd least expect there to be a crime scene!" explained Lestrade. He calmed down a bit before continuing. "Donovan, do have any information on Amanda. What she wrote on her file et cetera?"

"We sent some officers to go down and check her address, but it was phony. No other information was given about her whereabouts."

Lestrade sighed in annoyance.

* * *

Silence settled in the office. Lestrade leant back on his chair, whilst Donovan left to get coffee.

"Sherlock?" John broke the silence. "How did you know Amanda was the one responsible?"

Sherlock jerked his head towards Lestrade who sat silently in his seat.

"Don't speak so loudly. I don't want him on this as well." Sherlock whispered his reply.

"Fine. But how did you know?"

"I knew she was Evelyn Stowe the moment I saw her. I confronted her in the hallway whilst you got lost in the maze of division walls. Found the eye drops in a cup of tea she had on the tray. Told me to find the lucky one."

"The lucky one?"

"The one who had the honour of dying from an antihistamine overdose. I swear she has a fixation with the drug."

"So, how do you think she overdosed him?"

"Like I said, John. She must have forced him. Think about it. If she spent so much time with Moriarty, his ideas must have stayed in her head for her to use now. She threatened the man as she went around collecting the cups, told him to overdose."

"But don't you think a police officer wouldn't take orders from a receptionist, Sherlock?"

"Please. He must have been completely naive. Chances are she told him that his children would die if he didn't do what she asked or something along those lines."

"I hope you're not talking about me behind by back." Lestrade humoured. "Now, I think you two should go. I'm sure you have better things to do than hang around a crime scene."

"It's like you don't know me at all." Sherlock bantered. The three men laughed carelessly, forgetting that there was a murderer on the loose who had more in store for the consulting detective.


	8. Chapter 8 - Appreciated Input

"Antihistamine is in his blood, roughly the same amount that was found in the woman's." Molly informed the duo as they stood above a dead police officer, whose manhood was only covered with a white sheet. "He could've have suffered from hallucinations or drowsiness before his death."

"Thank you for your input, Molly. But hallucinations aren't what killed him." Sherlock replied bluntly.

"I just thought you'd want to know that's all." Molly defended, staring down at her feet nervously. "It doesn't seem like you're getting anywhere in this case."

Sherlock looked up at her in surprise. He knew that this case was proving difficult, but he didn't expect the morgue worker to comment on it.

"Should I leave you two alone to bicker it out or…?" John asked. There were no words coming out of either of them.

With that, John left. He didn't want to feel uncomfortable or feel like the man in the middle. He knew how much pride Sherlock had in his work and felt not necessarily an argument brewing, but just a harsh exchange of words.

"Look, Sherlock. When I was with Jim, he sometimes mentioned this woman." Molly began. "He told me that she was his friend, and sometimes she'd come and visit him when we were together."

Sherlock didn't speak as she began to unfold her knowledge of the woman with the red lipstick, who always visited Jim whenever he was with Molly. Her visits didn't appear as coincidences, but Jim seemed shocked by them and always tried to convince her to leave. He told Molly that she was just a friend, but it raised suspicions on whether her new boyfriend was having an affair, but Jim's words always assured her that he was faithful.

"I know that she had something to do with all this, Sherlock. But, from the way she was around Jim, she appeared afraid, like she was in a sort of abusive relationship with him and that's the reason why she's done all this." Molly concluded. "But, of course. You don't really care about my input."

There was a short, rather awkward silence in the morgue before Sherlock finally replied.

"Thank you, Molly."

He left the room swiftly, colliding with John who had returned after a nice cup of tea.

* * *

"Sherlock, please don't tell me you expressed your opinion on her love life or made an insulting deduction." John pleaded as the pair walked down the hallway to leave.

"No. Far from it, in fact." Sherlock stopped to straighten his scarf to look appealing for any press who might come his way when they leave St. Bartholomew's in case they decided to take pictures. Sherlock didn't cared for what they had to ask, as he wouldn't bother to answer.

"John. I'm going to Scotland Yard to try and get Moriarty's file again. Go back to Baker Street and take a nap or something." Sherlock ordered.

"Why?"

"Because, I need to think. Alone!" Sherlock shouted as he distanced himself from his friend and hailed a cab.

"Sherlock!" John called, but he had already been driven off down the road. John cursed to himself. He always hated it when the consulting detective went into a brooding state, refusing to share his thoughts.

* * *

"_Eve, honey, this isn't a big gun to be honest with you. It's just very intimidating. I'm sure a pretty girl like you can handle it." Jim offered Evelyn a sniper rifle. It sat in a nice, lavish leather case, with a silver brim. The weapon itself looked deadly and sinful and didn't complement the case it was in._

"_Jim, I can't. I'm sure you have plenty of willing people who'd love to point a gun at Sherlock Holmes." She replied._

_The consulting criminal walked over to Evelyn with a look that put the utmost pressure on her. He leaned in close to her face with a disgusted frown, inhaling her delightful perfume she had put on. _

"_But I want you to do it." He demanded. "You should have walked out of this job earlier if you didn't want to help me play my game."_

_Evelyn was about to say something, but paused. She could feel his breath on her and each time he breathed out, it sent chills down her spine. She was stuck in a dilemma and making a cocky remark would just put her into a greater one._

"_Remember to steady your aim." Jim smiled, handing her the case to carry onto a section of the pool's balcony. _

* * *

John opened the door to 221B. The apartment looked like it had been cleaned and the smell of dead mice had drifted away. The stench had been there for a few weeks so John was very grateful.

"Oh. Hello dear!" greeted Mrs. Hudson, as she came into his view with a feather duster in her hand. "I've just been clearing away the dust around here. You boys never seem to be able to clean up!"

"Well, we've been a bit too busy to clean up lately." John explained.

"No need to worry, dear. I have nothing better to do with my time." Mrs. Hudson said, dusting the skull on the fireplace. "Oh! That woman called just a while ago, on your phone."

"Woman? What woman?" John had forgotten that he'd left his mobile at the flat.

"The one that came over a few weeks ago. She asked for you. Seemed rather disappointed that I was the one who picked up the phone. I think she has a fancy for you."

"I very much doubt it, Mrs. Hudson."

"You should ask her out for a drink sometime. She seems nice."

"I already shared a drink with her downstairs in the café."

Mrs. Hudson turned to John with a smile upon her face.

"And how did that go?"

"Terrible. She complimented my looks, we talked about the past and then she left."

The landlady consoled John like he was hurt from the rejection, even though he didn't appreciate Evelyn joining him for a drink. Mrs. Hudson then left John as he grabbed one of the paranormal books that were waiting to be read. He sat down by the fireplace, opened the dusty book that had a library due by date stamped on first page and started to read.

* * *

John's reading session lasted about ten minutes before his mobile buzzed.

"If you want me at Scotland Yard, then too late. I'm busy." John said, assuming it was Sherlock.

"So, he's at Scotland Yard is he? Well, that's rather boring." The other person on the line replied. The voice was polite and feminine. Sweet to listen to.

"I don't want to chat to a murderer, Evelyn."

"John. Please. We got off on the wrong foot. How about a drink at the café again because I enjoyed that."

"I've had plenty of tea today, thank you."

"Now, I never said tea. I could treat you to some fancy beverages."

"Like a cup of antihistamine? I think i'll pass."

"I don't like playing this game, John."

"So why do you continue?"

There was no reply immediately; just a small sigh came out from Evelyn.

"I do what I do because I feel like I still need to seek someone's admiration and Sherlock is the correct person to seek it from."

"What do you mean by you _still_ need to seek admiration?"

"John, don't ask petty questions, because I won't answer them."

John smirked. She obviously didn't want to give too much information to him so he would be able to find a weakness she keeps hidden. He found it humorous that she was making herself look weaker somewhat.

"Tell Sherlock that all I want is some credit for all the effort i've put into getting him a case. I hope he realises how expensive pills can be."

The phone call ended suddenly, and left John still smiling away like a little boy who just found his teddy bear after a week-long search.


	9. Chapter 9 - The Cliche Visit

**A/N: Sorry for such a long chapter, I got lost in the moment. This is a dialogue-heavy chapter, so prepare for an onslaught of quotation marks! Enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock finally arrived home after many hours at Scotland Yard. In his hand was a file with all the information the police had about Moriarty. It was mostly made up of photos of him at the trial when he had stolen the Crown Jewels and worn them in a confident manner. The rest of information contained in the file was already known to Sherlock and was not useful whatsoever. Sherlock came to the conclusion that he had wasted time pestering Lestrade to give him the file and he could've gotten somewhere if he had stayed at the flat and referred to the internet. But alas, even if he had done exactly that, there would be very little to learn. Evelyn was almost anonymous because to most people, she didn't exist. She was a fictional character. To the police, she was Amanda, who had supposedly killed a scatter-brained police officer. To Mrs. Hudson, she was the nice woman who had a crush on the ex-army doctor, but had rejected him. To John, she was absolute trouble. But to Sherlock, she was a murderer who was lost in thought. Her actions were due to her past and her past involved Moriarty which was never good. Their moment together down the empty corridor made him see behind the treacherous, devious tone she had once possessed to expose a woman who was ashamed of what she had become.

"Sherlock!" John welcomed his friend home, jumping from his seat at the sound of the door shutting.

"Hello, John. Nice to see you are enthusiastic about my return." He replied, placing the file down onto the desk.

"Well, I have much to tell you." John said, staring down at Moriarty's file.

"Has Mrs. Hudson dusted?" Sherlock unexpectedly asked, looking around the room. He always noticed when his flat had been cleaned, especially when his landlady had done so.

"Yes." John answered. "But that isn't important Sherlock."

John waited as Sherlock picked up his skull and admired the lack of dust on it.

"Evelyn. She called me on my mobile." John reported, waving his phone, becoming impatient as Sherlock's interest in his newly cleaned flat increased.

"What?" Sherlock suddenly became curious.

"She wanted me to let you know how expensive pills could be and that she wanted you to give her credit for the fact that she's given you a case."

Sherlock grabbed John's phone as he waved it in his face. He began to flick through the menus.

"Do you mind _not_ taking my phone from my hands?" John asked.

"John, you haven't had a date in months. I wouldn't worry about me stealing one of your girlfriends." Sherlock said, still searching through what he thought was a complex phone.

John sighed because he knew that what Sherlock said was true. He hadn't had a date in the recent months to his disappointment. Sherlock kept him occupied by using all the milk, giving John a reason to go out and buy more.

Sherlock then exuded fulfilment, bouncing lightly with his feet.

"You brilliant man, John Watson!" he exclaimed.

John was speechless as he watched his friend pacing the room with a spring in his step, but then he saw his phone fly over in his direction. He quickly grabbed it and stared at Sherlock who was still satisfied with whatever discovery he had made.

"Her number!" Sherlock blurted. "It's a mobile number!"

John looked down at the screen of his phone. Sherlock had brought up the call log, which traced all the calls that John had. His most recent call was with Evelyn and her number had been kept on the phone.

"Sherlock, you do realise that she could've used someone else's phone." John informed, hoping to calm the now ecstatic consulting detective down.

"She could have! But, there's that possibility that she didn't!"

"Well, I'm not going to be one to find that out!"

Sherlock went over to John and gestured to him to hand back the phone. John gave in quickly and handed his friend the device. Sherlock called the number and waited patiently for a voice to answer.

"Hello?"

It was her voice, sweet and polite.

"Hello, Evelyn. Sher -" Sherlock was interrupted.

"Got you! Sorry, I can't pick up the phone right now, but leave a message after the beep, you sexy specimen you!"

Sherlock frowned a little, with an irritated look plastered on his face and handed the phone back to John.

"So, I guess she didn't pick up?" John chuckled.

"John, you're only encouraging her to be so childish." Sherlock replied, removing his coat and scarf to exhibit his purple shirt.

"I wouldn't call it childish."

The two men looked at the front door to see a woman, donned in a pale pink lace dress, ending just above the knee. Her light brown hair in loosened ringlets worn perfectly. Her lips, however, were not covered in her signature red lipstick. Sherlock was about to speak before Mrs. Hudson slipped past the young woman, who just stood in the doorway staring at the duo.

"Look who came to visit." Mrs. Hudson said, signalling for their visitor to walk in. "Come on in, dear.

"Well, Mrs. Hudson. It was never my intention to visit as you know." The woman said. She appeared to have been inflicted with trauma, but it was obvious this was just acting.

"Oh?" Sherlock acted as if he was shocked.

"The poor dear was mugged." The landlady whispered to Sherlock. "Look after her would you, Sherlock?"

"Certainly, Mrs. Hudson." He agreed, faking a smile in Evelyn's direction.

Mrs. Hudson comforted Eve before leaving the room.

"So, a mugging was it? Rather cliché to be honest with you." Sherlock smiled.

"It was the only way to get into this building without picking the lock and besides, i'm sure you've used that story before." Evelyn explained.

She sat down on the sofa and took her shoes off before resting her bare feet on the table. Sherlock remembered when he dressed as a vicar to get into Irene Adler's residence, pretending he was attacked. Of course, this didn't fool anyone.

"I like your shirt." She complimented, admiring Sherlock up and down.

"And I like your voicemail greeting." He complimented back. "John, may you leave us alone for a while?"

"Are you sure? I mean, she is a psychopath who has killed _two_ people." John asked.

"Don't worry. I'll call for you when she slips antihistamine into my drink." Sherlock grinned at his friend, asking for his trust.

John nodded reluctantly and decided to join Mrs. Hudson at 221A downstairs.

"I'd just like to clarify, I only killed one person. Or at least, I only killed one until you prove otherwise." Evelyn joked.

Sherlock sat down beside Evelyn. He was no longer afraid of her as he was before, knowing that she was something much more innocent than what she seemed. But he was still cautious, nevertheless.

"Who were they?" Sherlock asked.

"The woman was a client of Moriarty's. Needed some people to die. She paid good money." Evelyn paused to grab one of John's new books. "The police officer was one of the officers who took Moriarty to the trial. Nice guy to be honest with you."

Evelyn turned the pages of the book, skimming the contents.

"Why did you kill them and not someone more important?" Sherlock continued to riddle her with questions.

"No one cared about the woman. She was a widow, had no children, family lived in Sweden. I had her contact details so she was perfect."

"And the police officer?"

"His face was in the background of plenty of newspapers. I asked who he was and then somehow managed to find out his work hours and who his family were. It was just a bonus that he was so dim-witted. "

Evelyn looked at Sherlock. Her eyes were brightened from the light that shone out of the two long windows. She took a breath to speak and looked down to her lap to continue reading.

"It was very easy to get into Scotland Yard when you're disguised as a young woman recently left university with a degree in psychology, but makes her living shredding paper and delivering tea whilst she waits for someone to offer her the job she's qualified for." Evelyn caught her breath before proceeding. "However, because she's suffers from anthropophobia, which is rather ironic since she spent three years of her life in numerous classes filled with many students, she is afraid of going to job interviews. Luckily, the boring job of being a receptionist required no real interview, but a questionnaire to tell her employer all the things they wanted to know."

Sherlock stared at her. He was amazed at the backstory his visitor had created for Amanda. It seemed rehearsed, judging from how fast she spoke therefore forcing her to catch her breath halfway through.

"You learnt a lot from Moriarty." Sherlock observed. "Deception was something he was fond of."

"And didn't he pull it off well? I mean, he had fooled everyone until you came back from the dead."

"A lot of effort must have been put in to making Richard Brook genuine." Sherlock said with a smirk on his face.

He was stepping into shallow waters now and he knew it as he watched Evelyn become uncomfortable. She moved uneasily as if she had been reminded of a time she wanted to forget.

"Richard Brook was a fine plan, I won't disagree to that." Evelyn said, holding back the heartache she wanted to unleash. "But, it was what went behind the scenes to make that plan work that overshadowed the final product."

"What do you mean by that, Evelyn Stowe?" Sherlock said her name slowly, with his lips still curled into a smile. He was feeling so smart and clever, hoping that he had weakened Eve's defences.

"I mean, Sherlock Holmes, that Richard Brook should have used a particular friend he had to his advantage, so maybe you wouldn't have been able to come back so easily."

Evelyn raised herself up from the sofa, putting her shoes back on her feet. Sherlock stood up as well to stand tall above her. He was a disappointed that Evelyn hadn't made her emotions as clear as he would have preferred, because then he'd have something to boast about. But what he did know was that Evelyn was unaware that Sherlock already found out about the 'particular friend' that Moriarty could've used. Who she was referring to was herself, which finally confirmed the theory that she was two people – both fictional and real. He was ahead of the game that Evelyn presented to him the day they met and it made him bask in glory and relish his success.

"The pages of this book are dusty." Evelyn held the book out but didn't let go. "I can barely read the words."

She released her grasp on the book and let Sherlock handle it within his hands. Sherlock watched as she opened the door to leave but it was only until she departed the building, that he noticed what was tucked between two pages. It stood out like a bookmark.


	10. Chapter 10 - A Lack of Overdose

**A/N: Okay, so i'd really like some feedback on this chapter in particular. I don't know why, but I was struggling to see where I was going with the story so please tell me if the plot is going well or not. Enjoy! :)**

* * *

Sherlock pulled the neatly cut piece of paper out from the inside of the old, dusty book. The paper emitted a pleasant and divine smell, but Sherlock couldn't quite place the fragrance. It was exquisite whatever it was. Sherlock flipped the paper over to read a simple name that he knew well.

_Anderson_

It was clearly written in red marker pen in bold letters. Sherlock shook his head in an attempt to get his head around why Anderson was involved, that is if it was the Anderson he was thinking of. Sherlock then remembered that he hadn't seen the forensics examiner since the first murder. He wasn't at the crime scene at Scotland Yard or in Lestrade's office where one would assume he'd be. Suddenly, John interrupted the consulting detective's thoughts.

"I can see that the psychopath left." John said, looking around the room, relieved that she was no longer there.

Sherlock ignored him, trying to re-gather his thoughts that he had before John so rudely interrupted him.

"Sherlock? Are you listening to me?" John asked, hanging over his friend's shoulder.

"No." Sherlock said bluntly.

John scoffed at Sherlock's ignorance and took a seat by the fireplace. Then, all of a sudden, he heard the sounds of the beautiful violin played out from behind him. He turned to see Sherlock staring out of the window playing his trusty instrument. The music he played was melodious and calming, the tune was unrecognised however. Sherlock moved his arm gracefully as he used the bow tenderly. John admired as Sherlock worked his skill, producing the most harmonious sounds he could from the violin he carefully held in a single hand while he rested his jaw on the edge. John stared endlessly, captivated by the effort Sherlock put in his craft.

"John, I would prefer if you did not stare when i'm thinking in this manner." Sherlock said. He had stopped playing to John's eager ears, but did not move his eyes away from the window.

You'd think someone as smug as Sherlock would enjoy the stares. John decided to just sit in his chair, refraining from looking at his friend whilst the tunes began to blare out from behind him.

* * *

The next day, Sherlock awoke to find himself resting on the sofa, draped in his white duvet. He could not recall how the day before ended, but remembered playing a more aggressive song on his violin, one he composed himself. Sherlock yawned and made his way into the kitchen where he saw John casually eating toast. Sherlock searched around. He was expecting something he always had in the morning.

"Where's my tea?" he asked, sitting himself by the table. He was inflicted with an uncontrollable yawn.

"I'm sure you can get your own tea, Sherlock." John said with a mouth full of delicious toast.

Sherlock tried to clear his vision. Something else was on his mind, but he was too tired to find out where it was in his brain.

"There was a note." Sherlock was slowly remembering why he started playing his violin the previous day.

"A note?" John glanced up at Sherlock, puzzled as to what this note was.

"Well, it was more a piece of paper with a name scribbled on it." Sherlock corrected as he began to stand up and begin his search for the item he found hiding in John's book.

He stumbled as he walked, pointing to certain locations of the living room as he recollected the events of yesterday. Sherlock then pointed to the floor as he found what he wanted. He picked it up and read it.

_Anderson_

"That was the name! Anderson!" he shouted at John across the room.

John appeared from out of the kitchen, holding a cup of tea.

"What about him?" John questioned.

Sherlock then became wide awake.

"We need to go to Scotland Yard." Sherlock announced, neglecting the question he was asked.

"Why?" John didn't understand why he was even asking Sherlock questions, as he knew he wouldn't answer them. John was right of course, because by the time he asked Sherlock why they were going to Scotland Yard, he was already in his bedroom getting ready.

* * *

Sherlock and John entered Scotland Yard where it was full of activity. Men and women in police uniforms darted around the lobby as well as the occasional men and women in formal attire. John followed Sherlock. The consulting detective didn't glare or talk to John as they made their way to the floor where Lestrade would be found. When they arrived at said floor, Sherlock stormed into the inspector's office.

"There is something called knocking, Sherlock!" Lestrade said, folding his arms.

"What is the point in knocking when you can just barge through? It's more exciting when you do that!" Sherlock defended himself, looking around the office like it was an unknown place to him. "Where has Anderson been the last few days?"

Sherlock turned to Donovan, who was disgusted at Sherlock's awareness of the nature of the relationship she had with Anderson.

"He's been off work due to sickness." She explained, looking rather embarrassed. She regretted answering the question because she assumed a sardonic comment would be made, but fortunately one was not made.

"For how long has he been…?" Sherlock paused to look at John who was admiring a woman outside the office, through the window. Sherlock felt déjà vu as he remembered looking at Evelyn the same way when she was disguised as the receptionist. "…sick?"

"A few days. But it was always his wife who called him in ill." Lestrade answered. He noticed Donovan feel uncomfortable at the mention of his wife.

Sherlock thought hard. Anderson was a man who wasn't afraid to speak for himself, so why would his wife call him in ill? He must have been really sick not to call in himself. But then it occurred to Sherlock. He knew Anderson was married, but who he was married to, was still something that Sherlock had to learn.

"Have you met his wife?" he asked Donovan, who gave him a frown.

"No, she's always away on trips. She's a busy woman."

"Of course, so you two can spend time together."

John, Lestrade and Donovan opened their mouths in reaction to Sherlock's unacceptable comment.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. As much as he hated Donovan for calling his friend a freak, he thought it was very rude of Sherlock to say such things.

"What? Look at her knees! She hasn't seen Anderson in days! Why? Because his wife is back. But if Anderson spent so much time with Donovan, you'd think he wouldn't call his wife home because he's ill! He'd prefer Donovan to look after him." Sherlock replied, pointing at Donovan like she was a circus act.

The three of them stared at him in shock, especially Donovan who felt humiliated. She hadn't seen Anderson ever since the first murder took place and even then he seemed preoccupied. It was only when his wife called did she realise why he was so quiet and absorbed. But, Sherlock was correct. Anderson would rather have his mistress by his side. It's doubtful that he'd notify his wife.

"What's his address?" Sherlock asked, slightly amused at Donovan's shame. He decided it was somewhat revenge for the way she treated him.

Donovan wrote it down on a piece of paper without questioning why he was going there. Even John had no idea why Anderson became the sudden subject of interest.

"What is this about, Sherlock? Is Anderson in danger?" Lestrade asked the question that everyone wanted the answer to.

"I'll be sure to call you if he is." Sherlock replied cheerfully. He found immense pleasure from the situation.

Sherlock turned on his heel and left the office. John followed swiftly and decided to scold Sherlock for his actions later. Now wasn't the time for making a scene.

* * *

The cab ride to Anderson's address was packed with silence; the only sound being made was when the cab driver cursed at inexperienced motorists who lacked care for the pedestrians or the other drivers. When the journey ended, the cab driver apologised for his swearing and began to ramble on about how London had too many roads. The house the pair were dropped by was the typical London home. It was a Georgian terrace house, which was more than common in London and belonged to a row of houses identical to it. Sherlock wasn't surprised as he didn't expect a luxurious residence. He walked up to the front door and knocked, ignoring the doorbell which he assumed would make a boring tune. They waited for not even ten seconds before Sherlock knocked again. Fortunately, someone opened the door.

"And what are you doing here?" asked a seemingly unhappy Anderson. "And who gave you this address?"

Sherlock chuckled a tad when the image of Donovan popped into his head, reminding him what he had said previously.

"Are you okay, Anderson?" Sherlock asked. He faked a concerned look on his face. He was having too much fun with this.

"Yes, I'm fine. Now would you kindly bugger off?" Anderson tried to close the door, but realised Sherlock had opportunely put his foot in the door's way to prevent it from closing on him.

Sherlock then pushed his way through into the house and heard a grunt from Anderson as he was pushed into the wall when the consulting detective entered.

"Where's the wife?" Sherlock asked, observing the walls of the hallway. The décor wasn't special, it was dull and typical.

"She's gone out to get some food." the forensics examiner responded, rubbing his nose after the impact of the door.

"Oh, don't think of me as an idiot, Anderson!" Sherlock exclaimed, looking at him with a frown. "I know she's away on a trip! Business is it?"

Anderson didn't reply but just comforted his nose.

"I told you, John!" Sherlock boasted with a smile on his face. "So, who made the call?"

"Look, Holmes." Anderson became worried and began to whisper. "You better look around the house."

With that, Anderson gestured for Sherlock and John to follow him through the corridor. The man was obviously stressed and paranoid. Anderson led them into the kitchen which, like the rest of the house, was dull or at least it was in Sherlock's opinion. Sherlock looked around, taking Anderson's advice. He looked in cupboards, in shelves and under the tables and chairs. He wondered if this was a joke of some sort because he found nothing. Anderson then indicated to the microwave that sat on the counter. Sherlock moved over towards it and opened it's door slightly to find a small camera lodged in the back of the appliance. He pulled it out with little force and looked at. It was like a small black eyeball, similar to the ones he found in 221B when Moriarty planned the last level of his game.

"She told me I was bait. I only just found them cameras around the house, in just about every room. I've been under house arrest." Anderson explained.

"She didn't tell you to overdose?" John asked in surprise. He still thought of Evelyn as a murderous, unstable woman.

"Of course not, John. She just made me think that." Sherlock said, feeling the miniature camera in his hands. "Like she said, pills can be expensive."


	11. Chapter 11 - Complexity is Unnecessary

**A/N: Shorter chapter than recent ones, apologies in advance. ****I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)**

_**krikanalo:**** Thanks for the feedback! Dialogue has never really been a strength of mine so i'll be sure to work on it! I'm trying to make appropriate references to the past series' as much as possible. Donovan and her knees is one of my favourite inside jokes in Sherlock. ;)**_

* * *

"I never did trust that receptionist." Anderson mumbled to himself before closing the door to Sherlock and John.

Anderson had told them that Amanda was on his doorstep one day after he had taken a short walk. She looked distressed and gravely upset, her hands trembling to her own touch. Taking her into his home, not even wondering how she got his address, he asked her what had happened. She made up a bogus story about how her fiancé had shouted at her and threatened her with a knife. Anderson believed her and unfortunately fell into her carefully devised trap. She knocked him over the head when he was making some tea for the terrified woman she posed as and within hours placed cameras all over his house. When he woke up, she told him almost immediately that he was not to go back to work until Sherlock arrived to the rescue. He was not to contact anyone hence the reason why she was the one who made the calls. He was being watched from every corner of the house, every angle so making a false move would not be unseen. She had humorously dubbed him as 'the damsel in distress' and continued to refer to him as such over the days he was under house arrest. She did this all under the name of 'Amanda' to conceal her identity which pleased Sherlock. He didn't want anyone else knowing who she was and neither did she.

Back at 221B, Sherlock had called Lestrade informing him of what had occurred that Amanda had struck again. She was becoming very unpopular at Scotland Yard.

"So, what do we do now? Sit around and wait for Evelyn to make another move?" John asked, pacing the room with his hand on his chin.

"John, she's doing what Moriarty did. Playing a game. We make a move, she makes a move." Sherlock responded, twirling his violin bow. He tried to remember what tricks the consulting criminal did two years ago and debated on whether his former assistant would be able to do the same ones.

* * *

_Evelyn aimed the gun at John. She was amazed at how steady her aim actually was and the fact that she was on cue was just astonishing. It took her a while before she saw the brash Moriarty pull out from the shadows._

"_Sorry, boys, I'm sooo changeable!" he said._

_Evelyn tried to contain some laughter that Jim had caused. She didn't understand why she was finding him funny. She hated him when he forced her to do what she had done, but she had to admit that she found him entertaining from time to time. Her focus on John gave her a good view of the show which she actually disliked. She just didn't want to be here, on a balcony hanging over a pool with a sniper rifle aimed at John Watson's chest. She would rather be at home with a cup of tea, lounging on a nice, warm sofa watching shoddy television. But alas, Jim would not allow it. _

_Suddenly, she saw a nod from John. In curiosity, she looked over to Sherlock, keeping her rifle aimed at the ex-army doctor. The consulting detective first aimed at Moriarty but then, he lowered his handgun to point directly at the explosive-rigged jacket now lying near Jim. It was that moment when she knew that her pain would be over. She never thought she'd ever be pleased to die, but Sherlock was doing a favor and she was grateful. However, looking at Jim, she felt a sudden urge to give him a last hug. She cared about him and she hated to admit it. Doing the tasks she was given was something she despised, but pleasing him meant a lot to her. She liked seeing the look on his face when she completed the jobs and that was her weakness. She liked him too much and that made her come back. It was not just out of fear; it was out of the care she had for James Moriarty._

* * *

Sherlock rested on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. John had gone to get milk, like he had done too many times. He started to think that Sherlock was deliberately using all the cartons for his experiments so he could be left alone to dwell in his mind palace. Of course, this was exactly what Sherlock was doing and his mind palace, he was currently trying to work out why Anderson had not been killed and why it was Anderson in the first place. Who'd want to speak to Anderson of all people? Surely the cost of antihistamine pills weren't the reason why they didn't find a dead corpse at the common, dull London house where the forensics examiner inhabited. No. It was because Anderson meant nothing to Sherlock.

The woman, the client, was no one; she was distanced from her family. The least important. She also asked the consulting criminal to arrange the deaths of a few people. All the more reason to die.

The police officer had family and friends, however. But Sherlock didn't know him. Important to some but not to him.

Anderson. He was close to Lestrade and Donovan, and maybe even to all members of Lestrade's team. But why was he spared?

Unknown to Sherlock, who was looking too deep into this, Evelyn spared the forensics examiner because she knew that Sherlock wants everything to be complex so he could boast and look clever.

The same mistake was made when Sherlock thought that there was a code to remove Richard Brook's existence because Moriarty tapped digits into the arm of a chair. Sherlock saw it as something meaningful when really they were just chords to a song.

Sherlock expected an overdose because the victims ran in order of importance in his mind when they actually were used because they were easy to find.

Unfortunately, Sherlock didn't think this. He assumed that the next victim would be someone close to him and no one else. And then after that, someone who was close to everyone would suffer. If they'd die or not was still a question yet to have an answer to.


	12. Chapter 12 - The Fox-Pinned Date

Evelyn was keen to take the next step in the little game that she and Sherlock continued to play day by day. She watched the footage from the cameras before they were dismantled from their hiding spots, each one taken by the consulting detective. She watched him when he first entered the kitchen and laughed as he searched each shelf and cupboard but she was then startled as a large face came into view with defined cheekbones, the microwave door opening and the screen disconnecting from her prying eyes. From the other cameras, she saw him smile after discovering the black eyeballs that watched him and slowly walked over to them to pull them from the holes they were tucked into. After he did so, he placed the cameras into John's arms before giving a 'told-you-so' look to Anderson who was shocked to see drilled holes in the corners of his house. He was even more shocked when Sherlock found a camera in the bathroom, which gave an establishing shot of the room, making the shower and toilet visible to Evelyn who had actually placed said camera in an attempt at humour. Anderson wasn't finding it funny of course.

After watching the footage over and over again, Evelyn thought of what Jim would say. She hoped that he'd be impressed with her actions; he was her inspiration after all.

* * *

At 221B, John made his way into the living room to see Sherlock curled up on the sofa with his back facing the rest of the room. The doctor tapped his friend on the shoulder who reacted with a small jerk before suddenly turning his entire body to face John.

"Had a nice sleep, Sherlock?" John asked, holding up two large milk cartons that would hopefully last them a couple of weeks that is if Sherlock wasn't doing anymore experiments.

"I wasn't sleeping, John. I was…" Sherlock paused mid-sentence as he blinked hard to wake himself up. "…thinking."

"Well, you need to think about what you're going to do." John informed as he put the milk in their fridge, trying to ignore the severed hands that sat in there.

Sherlock followed him.

"About the case?"

"About Evelyn. This isn't a case, Sherlock." John said with a harsh tone. "This is a game that needs to end."

Sherlock stared at John as he began to pull cups out of the cupboard with force. He was upset and Sherlock knew it. He went up to his friend and watched him as he began to wash them vigorously to remove the stains that were an odd shade of green.

"I don't want lose you again, Sherlock. Neither does Mrs. Hudson." John said grievously. "Evelyn is just like him. And he was just about all I could handle."

"John, I need this case. I need to find out the truth behind Evelyn Stowe. You, of all people, know that when I get onto a case, I can't let it go until I solve it."

"What if she does what Moriarty did? Set up human bombs, employ snipers?"

Sherlock didn't reply. After his thinking, not more than an hour ago, about her and her next move, he had a reason to take John's advice and just leave her be. Sherlock returned to the land of the living afraid and alone, not knowing how his friends would respond to his return. He had lived in secret for a while to let the story of his death dim down and to go through that again would just be horrid.

John nodded in response to Sherlock's sudden silence, taking it as a victory. But before he could celebrate, his friend's mobile buzzed in his pocket. He retrieved and read.

_When was the last time you had dinner with a woman, Holmes? - ES_

Sherlock gawked at the message.

"I must dash, John. Seems I have a date." Sherlock exclaimed.

"Excuse me?" John asked in scepticism.

"Jealous?" Sherlock called from behind him mockingly as he left the flat swiftly.

As Sherlock entered Baker Street, he received another message.

_I can see you make hasty decisions when it comes to women. – ES_

Sherlock observed the street, searching for Evelyn to reveal herself.

_Don't bother trying to find me among this boring crowd. Follow my instructions, Holmes, if you're that eager to dine with me this evening. – ES._

Street names followed in Evelyn's next messages to Sherlock, which he directed the cabbie to. He did not reply to her, because it was obvious she was watching him.

* * *

Sherlock received a final message from his 'date' as the cab pulled up at a fancy restaurant.

_Don't be surprised when the cabbie thanks you. You just saved his family. – ES_

Sherlock leaned in to pay the cabbie who thanked him with the utmost gratitude. To Sherlock's surprise and somewhat annoyance, the cabbie handed him a deerstalker on the consulting detective's exit of the cab. But before he could question the cab driver, the car had already sped off into the distance.

Sherlock entered the restaurant, holding onto the deerstalker tightly. The entire room was rich with colour. It was covered lavishly with royal blue, red, purple and gold. But the dining area itself was rather cramped, with the few customers here and there moving their seats to make room for others. Sherlock walked up to the maitre d' who stood proudly behind a podium. He appeared very pompous as he judged the consulting detective up and down. But Sherlock didn't care for his opinion.

"Table for two. Under the name of 'Stowe'." Sherlock said, assuming Evelyn had already arrived and had made the same reservation.

The man looked at his book and shook his head.

"Sorry, sir. No 'Stowe' on the list."

"Holmes?"

The man looked annoyed with Sherlock's attempts to get in, but smiled when he came across the name on the list.

"Certainly, sir. Follow me."

The maitre d' led Sherlock to an empty table in the corner of the restaurant, far from the front doors. The seating was predictable. A place where conversations would not be heard. He sat down and was introduced to a wine list. But Sherlock wasn't interested in drinks or food and gestured for the list to be taken away from him.

It didn't take long before Sherlock was joined at his table by Evelyn who wore a long, lace forest green dress. Her red lipstick complemented the look. Her hair was, like always, worn as light brown loosened ringlets. Sherlock could see a golden fox pin placed in her hair. It was very distinctive.

"Well, here we are! First dates are exciting aren't they?" Evelyn she said ecstatically.

"This isn't a date. And it never will be." Sherlock replied with his elbows resting on the table. He held his chin up with his fists, admiring the woman before him. She looked beautiful and not just through his eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock. No wonder Moriarty called you 'The Virgin.'" She smirked, blatantly teasing him.

"Love is a dangerous disadvantage."

"And I'm sure you told Irene that."

The two exchanged stares. Sherlock stared into Evelyn's eyes to read her emotions but she showed none other than the pleasure she was getting from this.

"You knew The Woman?" Sherlock asked. He tried to forget her smart comment.

"Certainly. I thought you two were going to get married. I had picked out a dress and everything. The flowers on the fascinator were just so gorgeous. You disappointed me, Sherlock." Evelyn replied, pretending that she was genuinely upset.

John was right, she is just like Moriarty. The smart-arse remarks and the psychotic demeanour.

"Tell me why i'm here." Sherlock asked. He just wanted to leave this place as he felt judgement creep in from the presumptuous people around him.

"You're here because you were eager to find out more about me."

Sherlock wasn't here for any other reason than that. She had gotten into his head.

"The problem with some games, Sherlock, is that they can get addictive. You won't stop playing until you either win or lose." Evelyn began to fiddle with the fox pin in her head suggestively. "You lost last time and now you're seeking round two."

"Moriarty lost, he was found out. Richard Brook was not real and I proved that."

Evelyn looked at Sherlock like a nerve had been touched. Sherlock noticed this. Something about Richard Brook made her feel uncomfortable. She composed herself, however.

"You lost. You lost because you had to redeem yourself. The people you left. John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly. You had to find a way back into their place of trust. Just because Moriarty was uncovered doesn't mean you were victorious."

Evelyn was now leaning in closer to Sherlock. She looked upset but she was holding it back.

"You miss him?" he asked abruptly.

She sighed heavily.

"I'm glad to be rid of him. The Moriarty you knew was far nicer than the one I knew."

With that, Sherlock's mobile buzzed in his pocket. He took it out to find a message from John.

_Where are you? Come back to the flat. – JW_

"I must take my leave, Evelyn." Sherlock said, rising from his purple clad seat.

"Oh, what a shame. I was about to order." She complained, stepping out of her own chair.

Sherlock was about to leave but Evelyn stopped him in his tracks.

"It's rude to reject such a lovely gift, y'know." She said, handing the deerstalker to Sherlock with a wink.

Sherlock left the restaurant, the deerstalker in his grasp. Evelyn was to dine alone tonight.


	13. Chapter 13 - Obsession with Westwood

_Evelyn closed her eyes, preparing for the explosion that was inevitably going to occur. She predicted that the blast would leave a few scrapes on her body but the impact would be enough to kill her. However, having not examined the explosive-rigged jacket that now lay on the floor, waiting for Sherlock's bullet to make contact, she was uncertain. Maybe she wouldn't die. The very idea of her living and Jim dying pierced her heart, though. Not even the great consulting criminal could escape from such a devastating explosion. But, only time would tell because as she was deep in her thoughts, contemplating what she'd do if she came out of this alive, a familiar tune rang out, creating an echo among the walls of the pool._

'_Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive'._

_Silence fell on the building to make way for the classic song. Evelyn could see Jim look blankly at Sherlock. She struggled to see his face, but couldn't move around the balcony in fear that the sniper rifle would fall to the ground down below. So, she was left wondering how the great detective reacted at the sudden song. Sherlock, being a violin man, probably wouldn't care for disco._

_Eventually, after the small silence, she could hear conversation between Sherlock and Jim faintly. She couldn't make it out. But said conversation didn't last long as Jim pulled out his phone, revealing that the Bee Gees song was in fact his ringtone. He began to listen to the caller and said a few words before pacing around slowly in a circle continuing to listen. _

"_Say that again!" Jim bellowed. Evelyn jumped at his abrupt yell. His voice echoed far louder than his ringtone did. "Say that again, knowing that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you."_

_The last sentence was faint but Evelyn could hear it. He was angry, enraged. But, being the psychopath that Jim is, he might've actually been really ecstatic with the news delivered by the anonymous caller. Doubtful though. Jim got angry occasionally but not like this. Not so furious that his shout echoes throughout the room. _

_Jim put down the phone to his side to exchange a few words with Sherlock before exiting the pool with the phone by his ear, still talking to the person on the other end. Suddenly, Evelyn heard the loud click that Jim created with his fingers. That was her signal. She took the aim of the rifle before her off of John and swiftly packed the gun back into its case. She felt the other snipers do the same, even though they distanced themselves from her across the balcony. She couldn't see them through the darkness, but she could just sense their criminal presence. _

_Evelyn carried the lavish, silver brimmed case down a set of stairs. She was told to put the case into the back of a white van that would meet her in the car park of the building. However, she was to make her own means of getting home. As Evelyn exited the building through one of the many back entrances, into the dark night, she heard a cough from behind her. She turned to see a man. It was Jim._

"_I thought I told you to aim at Sherlock." he said with his thick Irish accent. His tone was bitter and full of fierce disappointment. _

_Evelyn cursed to herself. He had specifically told her to aim at Sherlock, not John. She wasn't suprised that Jim knew of her fault._

"_I made a mistake, Jim. I didn't do it on purpose, I promise you." Evelyn's heart beat frantically. Here she was, after making a small error, acting like a child who had just gotten told off for drawing on the new wallpaper with a permanent marker._

"_I'm not saying you did it on purpose, honey." Jim said sympathetically, chewing at his gum with his hands in the pockets of his Westwood suit. He came closer to Evelyn, who still had the gun case in her hands. "But, if you disobey me again, I tear you apart limb by limb, with your body parts sprawled across a children's playground, even if it was just a small, little, tiny mistake." He gestured that action with his hands which made Evelyn sure that what he just said was a promise._

_He looked up and down the woman before him as he came even closer. She heaved her breaths in panic and stared into his dark eyes. They were actually rather captivating and now, looking at him even more, she realised how attractive he was. In the past, she didn't like the look of him but now, in the shadows of the night with only a small light shining upon them from the lamppost, she was genuinely attracted to him. And Jim made note of that. It was just another weakness to add to the list._

* * *

Sherlock returned to his flatmate after a short evening with Evelyn. He still held the deerstalker in his hands and looked at it disapprovingly. No photos were going to be taken with it snuggly on his head, not after the last time. Sherlock glanced around the room to find a spot where he could hide it so John wouldn't ask questions, but it was too late as his friend came into the room with two cups of tea. He rested the teas on the desk and stared at the hat that Sherlock had his full grasp on.

"Is that a deerstalker?" he asked, not looking up at the now even more annoyed Sherlock.

"Yes, an unwelcomed gift from a cabbie." he replied, examining it. It was similar to the one he previously was given. It had a ribbon on the top. Almost identical.

"A cabbie gave you a deerstalker? Why exactly?" John asked. It wasn't everyday Sherlock was given gifts from cabbies.

"Because I saved his family, but that's not the real reason." John looked up at Sherlock who was now punching the hat in the air like he had done to the previous one. "It was a little joke from our friend, Evelyn."

"So, she was your date?" John scoffed, as he began to write on his blog. "Did you wake up at the front door by any chance or did she save the sleeping pills for someone else?"

"No, John. Don't be so ridiculous." Sherlock answered, throwing the deerstalker across the room. "Her goal is keep me from being bored or else she has no one to play with."

"And are you getting bored, yet?"

"Answer that yourself, John. I wouldn't have followed her instructions if I wasn't interested."

Sherlock sat down on the chair by the fireplace, picking up his cup of tea on the way.

"How did it go?" John asked his focus on the laptop screen.

"If I was an ordinary person, I'd say it was a disaster. But, being me, it was somewhat helpful."

John turned around in his chair to face the consulting detective. He had just finished a blog post, updating on what he and Sherlock were up to. Sherlock insisted he keep Evelyn anonymous, only refer to her as everyone knew her. Amanda the murderous receptionist.

"And what did you learn then?"

Sherlock stood up at looked out of the window, watching as the dull crowd of about ten people moved about.

"She wasn't so fond of Moriarty as much as we thought." Sherlock turned to pick up his violin that rested in its case on the floor. He pulled it out and tested the strings, plucking at each one. "In fact, she's glad to be rid of him."

John was about to speak but he was interrupted by the sound of the instrument playing. In many ways, the violin helped John think as much as it helped Sherlock.

* * *

Evelyn arrived home after spending some time with a waiter who had been fixated with her the entire evening. She didn't appreciate his attention, nor his constant gazes towards her. He had offered her food on the house, but she politely refused knowing that she'd have to pay anyway. She still was annoyed with Sherlock Holmes for leaving her suddenly so this waiter had no chance. Eventually, she had to give in though. He settled down beside her, pleased that she finally indulged in a conversation with him. He was rather charming, but cheesy because within ten minutes of him talking to her, he had already confessed his love for her in a poem. Fortunately, his poem was cut short when some customers at another table called for his assistance, allowing Evelyn to sneak away unnoticed.

Evelyn took heed of her appearance in the mirror. She still looked as divine as when she first entered the restaurant, but her red lipstick was slightly smudged from where she had placed her lips on many glasses this evening. She was far from drunk, but she felt tired from all the hand lifting she had endured. Evelyn quickly slipped out of her forest green dress she so did love. It was Westwood. Specially made. She remembered when she saw something similar in a shop window. Moriarty must have been watching her because the next day she found the lace forest green dress on her bed when she returned from running his errands. The dress was accompanied by a note.

_Not quite what you saw in the shop window, but you needed some Westwood in your life. – Jim_

At the time, the present showed her that Moriarty cared. But now, she knew it was just so he could keep her caught whenever she was straying. The dress symbolises the care she thought he had for her and she was always wondering why she kept it. Surely, something that reminded her of him would be discarded immediately but no. Not the dress. She loved that dress and not just because it was Westwood, but because it was from him. It was one of many signs of affection he ever showed. Even if that affection wasn't real, she appreciated it.


	14. Chapter 14 - The Impressive Entertainer

**A/N: Sorry for the late update, I was in need of some inspiration. I just want to mention that updates may not be as frequent, you may need to wait a few days before a new chapter is added because i've suddenly become busy with the typical routine of student life. Nothing to worry about though, I am not keen to let this story end adruptly. Anway, enjoy! :)**

* * *

Evelyn didn't like Mycroft Holmes, so it was unfortunate that he was sitting on _her_ sofa, eating _her_ biscuits. He visited unexpectedly, knocking on the door with the end of his umbrella. When Evelyn greeted him, he wore a nice, cheery smile and made his own way into her living room.

"I didn't expect to see you in my humble abode, Mycroft." Evelyn said, sitting opposite him in her favourite chair with silk pillows. "I thought you spent your time walking the Queen's corgis."

"I have more pressing matters to be concerned for." Mycroft replied, placing his umbrella by the side of the chair and picking out another biscuit.

"Thanks for warning the doctor about me, not exactly what I asked of you."

"Torture is not something I was too keen on doing, Ms. Stowe."

Evelyn wondered how Mycroft knew her real name. She never did tell him, but she ignored it.

"Don't be so formal, Mycroft. We are friends, remember?" she said.

"More like adversaries, taking into account, you are trying to overthrow my little brother."

"No, I am trying to impress him. That is the aim of an entertainer."

"And what a show you're putting on! The screenplay has similarities to Moriarty's great piece."

"I learnt from the best. It's a shame the best couldn't live to see the masterpiece that is being created."

"I'd love to chat about your deceased friend but I am here on business." Mycroft pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Evelyn. "I received this letter when I was spending some time in the Diogenes Club last week."

Evelyn wondered what this letter consisted of. A feeling in the back of her mind told her it was not good. It read as follows:

"_Dear Mr. Mycroft Holmes,_

_After your meeting with her, we have discovered Fiona Favell's real identity. Her name is Evelyn Stowe. However, there are no records of her. She has no job or school history or even a birth certificate so it was to our surprise that we found out her real name. We want to make sure that you remain safe, Mr. Holmes. Stowe is dangerous, having been the assistant to James Moriarty for quite some time, we fear she may share his hatred for you and your brother, Sherlock Holmes."_

Evelyn looked at Mycroft, who watched her show small signs of worry. Eve knew that Mycroft would be trouble when she convinced him to meet her in a dark warehouse. She was foolish to think that blackmail was enough to coax him into doing what she asked. Now, she knew that Mycroft had gotten someone to find out who she really was. She couldn't trust him with that information.

"Don't worry, Evelyn. The police have no idea who you are." Mycroft said, retrieving the letter from Evelyn's grasp. "No one knows besides Sherlock, John, some of the secret service and I of course."

"What will this information be used for, exactly?" Evelyn asked in concern.

"Oh, no use at all. I just want you to know that we are watching you. If you go on like this, you will end up in prison. I have people who want you spend the rest of your years in a cell. I do not wish for that to happen, however." Mycroft explained.

"Why? Am I too valuable?" Evelyn responded, mocking the Holmes brother.

"No. I know your story. The reason why you are here today murdering as you please." Mycroft stood up, picked up his umbrella and offered a hand to Evelyn. "And I know what Moriarty did to you and it's a good enough reason for me to keep the information I have."

Evelyn shook Mycroft's hand and stood up as well to meet him in the eye.

"Why can't you just tell Sherlock, then? It would solve this case quicker."

"I would prefer my brother to find out the answers himself. It pleases him."

With that, Mycroft walked out of Evelyn's house leaving her confused and partially annoyed. Mycroft could potentially ruin her plan. He probably had a list of every alias she ever used thanks to his friends in the secret service.

* * *

Sherlock looked through the windows of Lestrade's office while the detective inspector was searching for case files in the messy stack he had on his desk. Sherlock wasn't sure of what do with himself, he was bored, bored because Evelyn hadn't done anything. It was like she was on hiatus, a small break from committing crimes. But, Sherlock had some luck as Donovan barged into the room.

"Sir, there's been another murder." She announced.

Sherlock and Lestrade followed the sergeant out of the office. John, who was chatting up one of the female officers, was suddenly yanked by his knitted jumper courtesy of his friend who was elated with the news of there being another murder.

* * *

John approached the man who wore a white shirt that was now stained with red velvet blood. The hole in the middle of the chest, the bullet still lodged in between organs somewhere. Sherlock examined the window where the bullet had passed through. It had only left a small hole in the glass where it had broken itself into the room and landed in the victim, causing him to drop dead instantly. The consulting detective then turned his attention to the far wall where a message was written in yellow spray paint.

"_Are you impressed yet, Holmes?"_

Two dot eyes and a smile were drawn in the middle of the 'O' in 'Holmes'. Just like Moriarty had done on the glass case when he stole the crown jewels and wore them like a self-proclaimed king.

Sherlock was impressed at this murder because it didn't involve an overdose of antihistamine. Evelyn was adding some diversity to her crimes, which was now something to look forward to. Sherlock wandered over to the ex-army doctor who was still looking over the corpse.

"So, I assume you think she did this?" asked John, titling his head to the sprayed wall behind them.

"It is fairly obvious. There is another warehouse opposite this one. You can clearly see it from the window. She sniped him from over there." Sherlock explained. He began to run his gloved fingers over the bullet hole. "You said she was a sniper at the pool. No wonder Moriarty asked her, he must have known she had a good aim."

Sherlock was then startled when Lestrade handed him two plastic bags over the consulting detective's shoulder.

"Evidence." Lestrade said bluntly. "A mobile phone and a name tag."

Sherlock took them, studying the two bags in his hands. He found interest in the name tag which bore the name 'Fiona' on it in clear, bold letters.

"It was found in his shirt pocket. The mobile phone was on floor, not far from the body." Lestrade continued. "Do you know a Fiona, Sherlock?"

"No, not exactly."

Sherlock had a clear idea of who Fiona was. Just like Amanda, she was just another alias of Evelyn Stowe. He remembered the backstory Eve gave for Amanda, how she had a degree in psychology. Forged documents. It would come to no surprise that Evelyn was working at some shop or supermarket to receive this name tag, having forged documents to prove she was who she said she was to be able to get the job. Sherlock then took a look at the mobile phone. It had a few scratches on it and it was barely new. The scrapes indicated it had been used quite a lot and it was out of date as if it had been passed through generation to generation. The victim did not look like someone who would own a phone like this, he looked too business like. Sherlock concluded that he was given it, just for the purpose of following instructions.

The body lay on the floor vertical to the window, so the victim was standing directly in front of the glass when he was shot, facing his killer who was present in the opposite warehouse.

"How near was the mobile phone to the body?" Sherlock asked, pacing the room to re-enact the scene.

Lestrade stood two steps from the body.

"It was around here. Why?"

"The impact of the shot was enough to knock the phone out of his hands, but look at the body." Sherlock quickly walked over to the dead man before crouching beside him gracefully. "It was moved. His arms would not be straight; neither would his legs from a shot with enough impact the remove the phone from his hands to land two steps away."

"So, the name tag was placed in his pocket after he died?" John asked.

"Yes, the killer came to the body, placed a calling card and sprayed the wall before leaving. The corpse was straightened to make it obvious it had been moved." Sherlock said as he tried to imagine what happened after the victim dropped dead. "This murder had no reason to happen other than to taunt us." Sherlock raised his head to face the message written on the wall. "To taunt me, especially."

"What makes you so special?" sneered Anderson who had gone back to his usual routine of belittling Sherlock, even though he was the one who removed all cameras from the forensics examiner's house, allowing him to return to work.

"You lot, the police, don't care for games. You want to find the criminal in a swift manner. However, I do care for games; they make life that little less boring and boring is not what this murderer wants."

Sherlock stashed the two plastic bags of evidence under his coat, ignoring the protests from Anderson who was complaining about contamination of the crime scene and Sherlock's possession of vital evidence.

John stood up and followed his companion out of the warehouse, cursing to himself as he noticed Sherlock had already crossed the road to find a cab.


	15. Chapter 15 - A Bewildering Woman

_Irene Adler. 'The Woman'. The beautiful dominatrix. Evelyn was standing before her and didn't think of herself being any less attractive and actually, as Eve admired the Irene who was in a similar, black coat, she noticed they looked alike. They both wore elegant attire, their hair perfect and the posture they held was graceful, but strong. The only difference between Irene and Evelyn was that Evelyn was expected to look like this, respectable and impressive. Meeting Jim's clients, deceiving police and looking lovely and gorgeous for Jim to leer at as if she was a piece of meat. Irene, however, just had to be covered in leather with a whip to use for her peculiar job. Evelyn thought of herself having more dignity than Irene ever will, but this was coming from a woman who had strapped bombs to innocent people, aimed a gun to a nice, kind doctor and only recently arranged for a rich old woman to be mugged at the specific time of ten o'clock, so she really shouldn't have seen herself as being any better._

"_Well, are you going to take me to Moriarty or are you going to stand there like a moron?" Irene sneered, staring at Evelyn who had only just remembered that Irene was desperate to meet the man behind the Irish accent._

"_I'm sorry, Ms. Adler. But, Moriarty does not meet his clients directly." Evelyn informed, keeping her speech as formal as possible. _

"_Well, that's a shame. The voice on the other end of the phone was very desirable, even when the man it belonged to threatened to skin me and make me into shoes." Irene replied. She then took a seat in a clean, white loveseat. She became comfortable and gazed at Evelyn. "I'm sure he's already skinned you though, judging from what a pretty gem you are."_

_Evelyn was shocked by Irene's words. She didn't mind the dominatrix being flirtatious, it flattered Eve, but suggesting she and Jim had slept together was ridiculous. Their relationship was strictly business with the consulting criminal throwing the occasional harsh words. _

"_Oh no! Moriarty and I…we're not….we haven't done anything." Evelyn was a bit flustered with the sudden change of topic. _

"_Don't worry, dear. He probably sees you as nothing more than a little puppet doll. He does like to play with his toys."_

"_What do you mean by that?" Evelyn's tone became stern._

"_I mean, he's using you. I have never met the man, but I do know that he is similar to a child. Once he gets bored of his new doll, he will dispose of it."_

_The truth that Irene was telling hit Evelyn hard. It had been months since she entered the extravagant office of James Moriarty, answered all his questions before finally getting hired. She was then told to meet with very suspicious men under the cover of the night in the weeks that followed, listening to their bizarre requests which Jim was to work on. And now, having held bomb jackets, guns and poison in her hands, she realised it was only a matter of time before Jim got rid of her._

_Evelyn composed herself, stowing away her thoughts far back into her mind to stop herself from fearing the worse and becoming paranoid. But, as she raised her head to reply to Irene, she found that the dominatrix had left and on the now unoccupied seat where she had sat, a note. Evelyn began to read it._

"_If you ever need to relieve yourself of the Irishman's abuse, i'll give you my services free of charge. – Irene."_

* * *

John loved to write on his blog, especially when Sherlock was busy with experiments. It meant that his flatmate wouldn't comment on what he wrote as he was too engaged with boiling human fingers. The ex-army doctor was writing about the recent murder and how different it was to the previous ones. He also made a remark about how Sherlock was still unable to find the murderer, which made John's readers chuckle.

"John, can you please not emphasize on the fact that I haven't found Evelyn yet?" Sherlock asked, peering over John's shoulder.

"I can write what I want, Sherlock." John responded. "Even if it does make you look not as great as you like to appear."

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath. He was obviously annoyed with how John was portraying him. But as Sherlock sat back down in the kitchen to boil the last few human fingers he had left, the door front door swung open to reveal a suited Mycroft in the doorway, accompanied by Mrs. Hudson.

"Sherlock! Your brother's here!" she said cheerily, following Mycroft into the flat.

"Great." Sherlock replied sarcastically as he continued to drop the human fingers individually into heated beakers.

Mycroft proceeded to walk into the kitchen where he was met by a horrid aroma that had drifted into the room. He then wandered over to where the smell was coming from to find a sticky, yellow substance stuck at the bottom of the test tube.

"Don't touch that." Sherlock demanded, noticing Mycroft's interest in the odd experiment before him.

"Am I mistaken or is this…" Mycroft paused to examine the test tube further, ignoring Sherlock's wishes. "…urine?"

Mrs. Hudson gasped, finding utter disgust from what Sherlock observed in his spare time.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson. It's not mine." Sherlock said. He then looked over to his friend who was still typing away on his blog. "It's John's."

"What?!" all three of them shouted simultaneously, staring over to Sherlock.

"John, you should really flush before you use the toilet." Sherlock responded, with his focus turned back towards boiling human fingers.

John, who was now rather embarrassed, went back to his writing to avoid any further discussion on the matter while Mrs. Hudson left, still disturbed by what she had just heard.

"So, I hear there was another murder." Mycroft said, running his fingers over the top of his umbrella. "Still no name of the victim?"

"No one has come forward to put a name to the corpse." Sherlock answered. He left his human fingers to continue boiling and sat down on his chair by the fireplace, watching his skull which sat on the mantelpiece.

Mycroft didn't reply. Instead, he produced a medium sized file from under his coat and handed it to his brother.

"Let me do the honours." He said pleasantly, with a large smile on his face as he watched Sherlock open the file.

What Sherlock first saw was the photo that was clipped to the edge of the file. It was that of the victim. Below the photo was the man's basic information, his name, Derrick Fauster, and underneath that was what made this man related to the government official who was now pondering over the deerstalker that had been given to Sherlock not too long ago. The man had been a member of the secret service. A list of his skills, past missions and everything Mycroft would need to know was on the documents.

"Usually we do not let the public look at these files, Sherlock. But I felt it was necessary for you to know who he was." Mycroft explained, placing the deerstalker back in where he had found it - on the floor after Sherlock had thrown it.

John retired from writing to watch Sherlock read the file over and over again, trying to grasp every detail he could to store in his mind for another day.

"And how is this important?" Sherlock asked, as Mycroft sat opposite him.

"He was a valuable asset, one of the best." Mycroft said. "I suspect Amanda, Fiona or Evelyn, whatever name she prefers, had some sort of resentment against him."

Mycroft was acting like he had no idea why one of his most potent men had been killed, but he knew why. He was just waiting for Sherlock to figure it out.

"How do you know what names she goes by?" John questioned Mycroft.

"I have a list. A list of every name she has ever used." Mycroft answered proudly. "So, if you ever need to know who is behind the name Juliet or Anna, just come to me. I'm sure Ms. Stowe has used them plenty of times."

"Thank you, Mycroft. But I can detect when the murderer is her or not." Sherlock said, giving Mycroft the file back. "I do not need your list."

"Fair enough then, Sherlock. Be sure to call me when you find out the truth about Evelyn Stowe." Mycroft replied mockingly and retreated 221B without a proper adieu.

Sherlock was unsure of what his brother meant by that. What was the truth about Evelyn Stowe and how did Mycroft know it? Sherlock knew something had happened between her and Moriarty, he assumed it was an abusive relationship, not necessarily a romantic relationship, but it was certainly unusual. He thought she killed because she was told to, it was what she was forced to do in exchange for appreciation. Now, she was doing it because Moriarty was gone and Sherlock was the only one to impress with what she best which was committing crimes. The woman really did bewilder Sherlock and it made him frustrated. He was the world's only consulting detective and he couldn't unravel what had happened to Evelyn that makes her emotions so uneven. The worst part was that John was emphasising about that fact on his blog, the blog that Sherlock did so despise.


	16. Chapter 16 - The Supermarket Pursuit

**A/N: Little more action in this chapter! Enjoy!**

**_krikanalo:__ Thank you! I am trying to differentiate how Evelyn was in the past to how she is presently. I never expected her to turn out the way she did - I thought I would stuggle creating an OC with enough depth to make the character interesting. Again, thank you for your feedback. Really appreciate it! :)_**

* * *

Sherlock sat in the morgue with a very joyful Molly by his side. She had done her hair in a way she thought Sherlock would approve of, but he showed no interest in the pathologist's effort she put in her appearance. She believed that their last encounter meant something. The tone of his voice when he thanked her for appreciated input she gave on the case gave her the wrong impression, an impression she thought of far too many times. Molly watched as Sherlock pulled out the mobile phone and the name tag that was found in the crime scene, his pale fingers running over the surface of the items. He really did intrigue her as he was constantly exuding out elegance and grace.

"Molly." Sherlock said to her without looking up from his detecting. "Can you give me some space?"

Molly staggered back. She should have known Sherlock didn't like it when his personal space was invaded, especially when he was working. The pathologist watched the consulting detective as she had nothing better to do. All the bodies were zipped up in their bags, having been looked over. So, there was Molly Hooper, just staring carelessly at the sociopath before her. Then, Sherlock held the mobile phone into the light to look at the scratches it had carved into it. Molly followed Sherlock's eyes to the phone and somehow, she recognised it.

"Sherlock. That phone…" she murmured, trying to place where she had seen the mobile that was held in Sherlock's fingers.

"Yes, what about it?" asked Sherlock bluntly, sharing Molly's gaze.

"It's just… Jim… he had one like that."

Sherlock's attention went towards Molly who hadn't taken her eyes off of the device in his hands.

"It's exactly the same." Molly continued as she became more confident to approach Sherlock. "The marks, the scratches. I told him to get a new one, but he insisted he keep it." Molly smiled as said the last sentence, looking nervously into the ground. She was reminded of the times she had with Jim before he tore her apart.

Sherlock put the mobile back onto the table, caressing each scratch.

"You're right, Molly. These scratches were made long ago." Sherlock then looked up at the red-cheeked Molly. "Thank you."

Molly then played with her hair childishly, weaving her lock within her fingers.

"Sherlock, I was just wondering if you want to go for a drink sometime." Molly asked nervously. "I know you don't do dates or relationships. But, it's just –"

"I'm not giving any signals, Molly, before you accuse me of doing so." Sherlock interrupted, now focusing on the name tag. "Besides, I'm busy."

"Actually, I asked because you look stressed. You have bags under your eyes. You haven't slept well lately." Molly said with concern in her voice. She approached Sherlock closer to examine the bags he did possess. "It's because of her. You're worried that she's going to do the same as Jim did. Make you fall and crumble. The thought of it is keeping you awake."

Sherlock was speechless at what he had just heard and to his surprise, found truth in what the pathologist was saying. He was afraid, but not of the woman who had caused all this chaos. He was afraid of what could happen.

Molly leaned in to read the name tag in Sherlock's hands, forgetting the personal space he wanted.

"Fiona. I met someone called Fiona. When I was in a supermarket." Molly paused. "She looked like Jim's friend, but I never asked."

"What supermarket?" Sherlock questioned a slight smile on his face.

"I don't know the name. I just went in to get milk."

Sherlock suddenly pulled out his own mobile from his pocket.

"Why… why do want to know?" Molly asked, excited that she had hinted something to the consulting detective, but he didn't respond.

Sherlock held the phone to his ear as Molly watched eagerly.

"John, are you still at the supermarket?" The sociopath asked.

"Yes, of course. Getting milk for the fourth time this week!" John responded on the other end of the phone.

"Stay there, don't pay for anything!"

Before John could respond, Sherlock had already hung up to call Lestrade. He stood up, gathering the evidence on the table. Molly, confused as to what Sherlock was so restless about, helped him place the mobile phone and name tag back into the plastic bag as Sherlock quickly called the inspector. Once the evidence was all neatly resting in its place, Sherlock walked with a bounce in his step out of the room, but before he stepped over the threshold, he turned to the baffled pathologist.

"Thank you, Molly."

* * *

The cold air brushed Sherlock's cheeks as he approached the supermarket where he had sent John so many times. There, he saw two police cars with their lights dazing onlookers. Beside one of the cars stood a casual Lestrade, leaning against the hood, talking to Donovan.

"What's all this about, Sherlock?" he asked, catching sight the consulting detective as he power-walked into the locality of the popular business where many people did their occasionally shopping.

"Follow me." Sherlock replied, walking briskly into the supermarket, gesturing to Lestrade and his team to trail behind.

The large warehouse full of customers was busy. It was would be a struggle to find John among the crowd. So, Sherlock made his way into the aisle where the milk was.

* * *

After a few minutes of searching for the ex-army doctor in the rows and rows of food items, Sherlock finally found him at the end of one of the aisles, looking on the bottom shelf for the right type of milk. As Sherlock walked down the aisle to meet with his friend, he felt his legs give way all of a sudden, but he did not fall to the ground below as he had been grabbed by the arm.

"Be careful. The floor is a bit wet." The person said who was standing beside Sherlock, still their hand grasped tightly onto his upper arm. That voice, though. It was sweet and polite.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side to face a young woman. Her hair in loosened ringlets, her face lacking make-up and the tag on her loose-fitting shirt baring the name 'Fiona.'

"Fancy meeting you here, Sherlock Holmes!" Evelyn gasped in delight, but it was when Lestrade's team entered the aisle did she gasp in fright instead.

She ran for the opposite direction, pushing Sherlock out of the way as she did so.

"John! Grab her!" Sherlock shouted behind her as he chased after the distressed woman.

John turned his attention to Evelyn, who ran full-speed down the aisle, her shoes clattering against the hard floor. John made a grab for her as she passed him; only for her remove his hand off easily with a loud smack. She could hear the yelling of Sherlock, John and their buddies on her tail, pursuing her.

She rushed into a staff area, blocked with plastic drapes, but to her disappointment, her hunters followed her. She could hear them coming into the room, so she hid in the darkness swiftly before they could catch a glimpse of her stressed form.

"Search the room! Donovan, go search outside for any sign of her with your half of the team." Lestrade ordered. He turned to the other half. "You lot, come with me. I want this place searched up and down. Any movement, you give it a second glance!"

Sherlock and John looked around together to find Evelyn, not wanting to join Lestrade or Donovan who had already left the pair's sight. The consulting detective was about to speak but, suddenly, his friend fell to the floor.

Behind John, who was sprawled across the ground, holding onto his head in pain, was Evelyn with a blunt object. She stared at Sherlock, his face red with anger. No one just hurts John like that. No one hurts the people Sherlock loves. He moved closer to Evelyn, the blunt object raised in defence.

"Now, now Sherlock. If you get any closer…" she threatened in a sing-song voice "…I think we all know what will happen!"

Sherlock ignored her threats and paced forward, knowing that she would not harm him. She already hurt John and that made her feel the utmost guilt. Evelyn stepped back, retreating from the intimidating man, his brow furrowing at her actions.

"Get her Sherlock!" pleaded John from the ground. He was finally looking up at the scene.

But Sherlock ignored him too. He was inching his way further to the young woman who shook her head harshly. Sherlock lifted his hand up to Evelyn, carefully, with consolation in his eyes.

"You don't need to run, Eve. You can turn yourself in and you won't need to harm anyone else." He said, showing sympathy.

"You don't understand, Sherlock. This is a game!" Evelyn began to chuckle "And I am not going to forfeit to you!"

Evelyn threw the blunt object onto the floor.

"You don't want me to forfeit either. But you don't want to face the future you fear." Evelyn wandered closer to Sherlock casually. "Forfeiting is the easy way out for you as long as the other person is the one to do it. But it was never_, never_ the easy way out for me." Evelyn patted Sherlock on his coat. "Oh, tell Mycroft to take Fiona off the list. I don't think I'll be using _that_ name again."

Sherlock looked on as Evelyn hurried out from the staff area, the plastic drapes swinging from her exit.

Sherlock gazed a little longer before bending down to John who had leant against a cardboard box.

"Why didn't you grab that cow when you had the chance, Sherlock?" John asked angrily, wincing at his pain.

"It need not matter, John." Sherlock said, breathed heavy. "Are you okay?"

"What do you think?! I just got hit over the head…" John pointed at the blunt object on the ground in front of him. "…with that!"

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell is going on?!" called Lestrade as he rushed to the pair with his team behind him. His first reaction was to John. "What the heck happened to you?!"

"Amanda, she hit him over the with the pipe over there." Sherlock explained, pointing to the weapon used. "We need to get him a medic."

"I'll call for back-up." Donovan said, paging into her receiver.

"I think it's too late for that. Amanda has already made her grand exit." Sherlock replied, staring back at the plastic drapes where Evelyn had made her escape.


	17. Chapter 17 - Lust Not Love

**A/N: Wow, I finally managed to write this! It wasn't a problem of what to write but rather when to write it. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and sorry for the wait. :)**

* * *

The small stitches in the back of John's head made him wince slightly as he felt them piercing his skin. Fortunately, the blow to the head had not made a large and heavy wound however; it had left him with an awful headache. Sherlock sat beside John, waiting for the nurse to come back with something to clear the ex-army doctor's head which was continuously pounding.

"John, if you continue to touch the cut, it will hurt even more." Sherlock advised, his eyes not even looking at his friend but instead staring endlessly at a model skeleton that stood proud in the cream coloured room.

"I do realise that, Sherlock." John said again, still wincing at the pain. "I am a doctor, y'know."

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief with a slight smile on his face. John couldn't resist touching the stitches in his head, even though he did know the consequences of his actions.

The nurse returned after a few minutes with medicine along with a glass of water. John admired her as she came into the room, her lengthy blond hair bouncing in front of her chest. She gave the glass to John, her touch grazing his. Sherlock noticed her fingers lingering of John's a little longer before finally letting go and putting the pill in John's other hand.

"Drink up, darling." she said with her soft cockney accent as she exited the room, deliberately swaying her hips to grasp the male attention that she loved to have.

"Hair extensions." Sherlock said suddenly, his focus still on the model skeleton that almost seemed to be mocking Sherlock's position on the chair.

"What?" John asked, placing the pill in his mouth and taking a sip of the water to help it go down.

"There is a strand of blonde hair lying on the floor, John."

John peered over to get a better look at what his friend had noticed without looking. There was, indeed, a blonde piece of hair on the floor that looked similar to the tail of a horse. John wondered how Sherlock had seen it without looking, but this was Sherlock Holmes and he knew everything sometimes.

Sherlock stood up and wandered over to the piece of fake hair picking it up and placing it into his coat pocket. John looked at the consulting detective with suspicion.

"Anything to do with Evelyn, by any chance?" John questioned. It wouldn't come to a surprise if that was the case.

"No. It is for an experiment." Sherlock answered as if taking a hair extension for it to undergo extensive procedures was completely normal.

* * *

_Evelyn waited in the black car that sat outside of the secluded location that Jim had told her to go to through a text. She couldn't see much from the rain-covered windows of the luxury car but what she could see surprised her. Jim, walking out of some double doors, dressed casually, the only formal clothing being his trousers. He had lost his shirt and jacket to reveal a white t-shirt that he wore loosely around his slim body. _

_The car door opened, causing Evelyn to jump as she was spending her time reading notes she had made on her phone. When she turned to her left, she was greeted by Jim who had been drenched from the rain. A smirk hung on his face. He seemed to be in a good mood._

"_So, where have you been for -" Evelyn was cut off._

"_Gum." Jim interrupted, his hand reaching out to Evelyn._

_Eve grabbed her bag from her side and pulled out one of Jim's many flavours of chewing gum. She was about to hand it to him but he pulled his hand away and instead put his tongue out. Evelyn looked at the consulting criminal, his handsome gaze staring at her with his tongue waiting for the taste of the gum to arrive. Evelyn gave him an 'are you serious?' look but he ignored it. She gave in, reaching towards Jim and slowly and carefully resting the chewing gum on the tip of his tongue. But as she was about to rest back into her seat, Jim gripped onto her wrist to stop her._

"_Mycroft kept me in his adooorable little room for me to spill the beans." He explained while he stared at Evelyn and chewed his gum. _

"_And did you spill the beans?" Evelyn asked as she became uncomfortable in her current stance. _

"_It doesn't really matter at all, honey." Jim looked up and down Evelyn, admiring the black pencil skirt she had on. "Nothing for you to fret about." _

_Jim let go of his assistant's wrist and she immediately sat back down onto her seat in the car as a wave of relief washed over her. But Jim's eyes were still locked onto her. He gestured to the driver to start up the car._

"_The fox." Jim said who had now sparked an interest in Evelyn's hair as the two of them where driven to wherever Jim had intended to go. "The fox who faked his own death. Really nice fairy-tale if you ever get the chance to read it."_

_Evelyn had forgotten that she had put the fox pin in as she searched for it around her light brown hair._

"_Yes, I have read the tale." Evelyn was not too acquainted with having normal conversations with Jim. "But it just so happens that the fox is one my favourite animals. Beautiful creatures."_

_Moriarty looked up and down Evelyn for a final time before staring into the window and watching as the rain poured from the dark night. _

_He murmured just loud enough for Evelyn to hear as he watched her reflection in the window. "Yes, beautiful creatures."_

* * *

Sherlock and John didn't stay at the hospital for much longer as they had been advised by Lestrade to go back to the supermarket to interview Amanda's boss. Of course, Sherlock was already planning to go back to get the information he needed. Sometimes he wondered if Lestrade doubted how clever he was, but Lestrade definitely knew how clever Sherlock was so there was no doubt whatsoever.

* * *

The pair stood in a small office situated in the back of the supermarket and observed around the room. It was a bland and banal office with little to decipher. There was a cork notice board on the wall with a few notes and lists that an ordinary person would make occasionally and next to that board was a whiteboard with a drawing on it. It was a picture of a fox drawn in a red marker.

"Sorry to keep you waitin'. One of the tills decided to stop workin'. Bloody things." Said a man who walked briskly into the office, shutting the door behind him.

The man had an awful haircut – it was shoulder length and dishevelled. On his white shirt, there were multiple stains and on his brown trousers, there were a few more stains. The man was a complete mess.

"No worry." Sherlock reassured, faking a smile. "I am Sherlock Holmes and this here is Doctor John Watson."

John nodded a hello as did the man in response.

"The name's Reg, short for Reginald. Parents were very keen on ridiculous names." The man laughed. "But, of course. You are here about Fiona."

"Amanda." Sherlock corrected. "How long had she been working here?"

"Oh, i'd say a few weeks. However, she did come here to do her shoppin'." The man smiled as he thought of the woman. "She was fit too."

"That is irrelevant, _Reginald._" Sherlock looked around the room aimlessly. "Do you have a file or anything about her in document form?" Sherlock didn't want to speak to the man if he wasn't going to be serious about the situation. He'd rather read for the information he wanted.

Reg began to rummage around through a pile of papers that were stacked unevenly.

"Here we go." He said, passing a couple of papers stapled together to Sherlock. "Fiona Favell. Like I said: she was fit."

"I think you're forgetting that she is a murderer." John said,

"Well, if looks could kill…"

"Just stop." John demanded, who couldn't take any more of the man's comments.

"What was the nature of you relationship with Amanda?" Sherlock asked, flicking through the papers he had been given.

"Well, she didn't really like me." Reg stared at the Sherlock, searching for sympathy even though the consulting detective wasn't looking at him. "I always tried to be… kind to her. Making her tea and coffee. Y'know, the basics of gettin' with a girl."

"Is that why you have stains on your clothing?" Sherlock asked.

"What stains?" Reg looked down at his shirt and noticed the coloured marks.

"You said you offered her tea and coffee, however she was not interested in your advances hence the reason why you have stains." Sherlock raised his head to focus on the manager. "She threw the drinks at you. But from how many stains there are on your clothing, I can tell you didn't get the message and tried again and again only to fail each time."

Reg glanced at Sherlock, his words not reaching his mouth. He was still rather upset over Evelyn's rejections.

"Now, may I take this?" Sherlock asked, holding the papers.

"Yeah… yeah, sure." Reg stuttered, still trying to gather himself.

Sherlock began to make his way to the door of the office only to hear Reg behind him calling his name. The consulting detective turned around to meet the manager's eyes.

"If you do see Fiona, tell her I go the café just down the road after work every Thursday."

John sighed at the poor man's fixation with the ever so lovely Fiona Favell and left the office with Sherlock.

* * *

"So, he seemed very much in love with Evelyn." John said as the pair walked through the aisles of the supermarket, passing the dairy one. John looked down at said aisle with annoyance, hoping that he wouldn't need to get milk anytime soon.

"I think the term is lust, not love, John." Sherlock responded, checking if the hair extensions he had picked up earlier in the hospital were still in his coat pocket. "The way he talked about her. He was referring to her as piece of meat, not a beautiful creature."

"Well, I think if he had ended up with her, he would be very much dead." John chuckled. "So, where are going now?"

"Back to the flat." Sherlock stopped walking, pulled out the stapled papers and pointed to a particular line in the text. "Then we visit Fiona Favell."

John took the papers and looked at what Sherlock was pointing to with his pale fingers. An address.

"The one she gave at Scotland Yard was fake. What makes you think this one is real?" John asked.

"The house is only two doors down from where our friend Kitty Riley lives." Sherlock answered, visioning the house of the reporter who had been tricked by Moriarty two years ago. "What a coincidence."

* * *

**A/N: Just like to mention if you are not acquainted with the term, but 'fit' is British slang for attractive or sexy**.


	18. Chapter 18 - Caring and Existence

Sherlock and John stood in the cold, late afternoon and observed the gloomy and desolate street in which they stood on. The street was familiar and waves of nostalgia washed over the two men. The moment when Sherlock and John found out Moriarty's plan emerged in their heads. Poor Kitty Riley. Having been tricked by the consulting criminal, she felt humiliated when Sherlock returned with evidence that claimed that Moriarty was indeed real and Richard Brook was a complete fake. She had written articles among articles about the event – when Sherlock jumped to his death because he was nothing but a fraud. But all those articles went to waste when the consulting detective widened people's eyes when he came back to life and this was why Kitty Riley could no longer find a story. No one trusted her because she had been so easily fooled as she had longed for that first big scoop in hope that her editor would notice her and he did for a while, until Sherlock Holmes came home.

* * *

The detecting pair approached one of the houses and John knocked whilst Sherlock waited, his collar lifted up so 'he looked cool'. No answer came from the door however, so John tried again, knocking a bit more harshly than he had done before. Evelyn may be in this house, unaware that Sherlock and John were on her doorstep. John just wanted her to go away, leave him and Sherlock be and never return. Moriarty had been enough to deal with. John gave Sherlock a glance as the door didn't move a budge; no noise came from the house.

"She's gone out." Said a voice. It had come from behind the two men who still stood patiently on the doorstep.

Sherlock and John turned around simultaneously to see a red-haired Kitty Riley on the pavement; her hand clutched onto her bag that hung over her shoulder. She had not changed very much. The same pale face and the stereotypical nosy demeanour. If anything had changed, it was defiantly her reputation.

"I thought I recognised that black coat." She said, shaking her head in disbelief. "What a pleasure it is to see you again, Sherlock Holmes." She continued sarcastically.

"Oh no, the pleasure is all mine, Kitty Riley." Sherlock began to walk down to the journalist with his hands behind his back. "How are the stories going?"

"Do not mock me, Holmes. You know _exactly _how the stories are going."

"Not going too well?"

"No thanks to you."

John decided to intervene as he noticed the consulting detective and the foolish journalist were now nearly nose to nose.

"Now, c'mon ladies." John pulled Sherlock away from Kitty who gave him a fierce look. "Let's not bicker."

Sherlock had almost forgotten what he had come to the street to do and he was about to walk back up to the door before Kitty repeated herself.

"She's gone out."

Sherlock sighed and returned to meet the journalist face to face, but he had an idea that could possibly benefit him. But to do so, he needed to approach the woman in way he wasn't used to.

"Kitty, may we talk at your place? I have a few questions that i'm sure you can answer." Sherlock asked, trying to look as friendly as possible.

Kitty gave him a confused look. She wasn't sure what the man had in mind, but this would be a perfect opportunity to have a few more words with Sherlock to avoid causing a commotion in the street.

* * *

The three of them sat in the same room where Richard Brook had begged and pleaded for protection. Paintings were still present on the wall, above the sofa and the fireplace was opposite it. Sherlock and John sat on the sofa together whilst Kitty took a seat on the chair beside the mantelpiece. She was about to start the conversation but Sherlock beat her to it.

"What do you know about Evelyn Stowe?" he asked, being watchful of Kitty.

Sherlock was sure the journalist would know about Evelyn, the TV presenter that is. Someone who had written about Richard Brook and had 'proof' that he was real would surely know about his colleague who had tragically committed suicide.

"She wasn't real, like her so called colleague Richard Brook. Why does it matter?" Kitty replied.

The irony of what Kitty had said was clear. It had been only two years since she said that Jim Moriarty wasn't real and now she was contradicting that. It made Sherlock and John smile.

"We just want to know more about her. Who she was. The woman Moriarty created."

"She was a young, aspiring actress who had unfortunately landed a job as a TV presenter. A job she didn't want at all. When she met Richard, everything changed. They became friends in an instant. Richard took a liking to her and their agents said that they were a perfect duo."

"A perfect duo?" John queried.

"Yes. They were very much alike."

Sherlock and John exchanged glances, knowing that Evelyn and Moriarty were also very much alike.

"Why did she commit suicide?" Sherlock asked.

"I was told it was because she didn't agree with what TV bosses wanted the children to see. She left and tried taking Richard with her and that angered them. They harassed her until she couldn't take anymore."

"How did they harass her?"

"Richard, or rather Moriarty, told me that they gave her death threats and when she tried to come back and reason with them, they told her that she had lost her chance." Kitty stared down at the floor for a few seconds before proceeding. "He was distressed when he told me. He was full of tears."

"Acting." Sherlock informed.

"Of course it was acting, Sherlock. He was pretending to care about someone who didn't even exist."

"_He was pretending to care about someone who didn't even exist." _

Sherlock repeated Kitty's words in his head, almost whispering them.

"I need to get into Fiona's house." He said suddenly, standing up hastily.

"What? Why?"

"I know you have the keys. She told you to watch the house and that is the reason why you were on the pavement. You were watching."

"Do you really think i'm going to give you the keys to my neighbour's house?" Kitty chuckled. "She told me to make sure that men like you don't mope around."

"Well, if that is what she told you, then she must have something to hide." John said, standing up but still not meeting Sherlock's tall stature.

Sherlock smirked at John's enthusiasm to get into the house two doors down. Kitty also stood up, eyeing the two men before her, demanding the keys with their emotionless faces. She remembered that they had broken into her house once and she didn't want that happening to Fiona. So, she went over to the fireplace and pulled the keys from where they hid under a hollow lamp. She turned on her heel to hand the keys to Sherlock who then left the journalist's home with John. They were both eager to see what Evelyn was hiding in what might be one of many homes she owned.

* * *

The key turned gracefully in the lock and Sherlock entered the house first with John following close behind. Sherlock found a switch and the light above their heads flickered on even though it wasn't needed as the hallway was already well lit. The wallpaper was red, with faded white patterns that intertwined with the simple paintings that adorned the walls. John headed further up the corridor and found himself with two doors either side of him, one opened. He went inside and looked around what looked like the living room. It was clean, neat and feminine. The wallpaper was a lighter shade of red and more paintings covered the walls. There were artistic aspects in the style of the home and John actually like it.

Sherlock, on the other hand, found that atmosphere was almost too nice. He was used to the dark patterned wall at 221B that had a yellow, smiley face on it with the addition of multiple bullet holes. He was used to the papers and books across the floor and his skull that sat lonesome on the fireplace. That is was Sherlock was used to. Not the ordinary home that he currently stood in.

But, maybe this place was not so ordinary, because as Sherlock searched the rooms, sighing at the fact there was nothing of interest, he came across one room that had a few distinctive features. The bedroom. Sherlock entered cautiously and admired the room. The papers and books across the floor and a decorative skull sat on the bedside table. The consulting detective picked the skull up and juggled it in his hands as he wandered around the room taking in every detail. He studied the white wardrobe that rested in the corner of the room before opening it to reveal elegant dresses one of which caught his eye. A forest green lace dress. Sherlock threw the skull onto the bed so he was able to pull the dress out from its place with more ease. He felt the lace fabric that Evelyn had worn on their 'date' and he imagined her in it. She reminded him of Irene Adler almost, taking care into the way she looked and knowing that she was a good-looking woman. The thought of Evelyn being Irene made Sherlock shudder. He was not going down _that_ road again. Curiosity got the better of Sherlock and he took a look at the label. Westwood, just as Sherlock expected. After returning the dress to the wardrobe, Sherlock took a gander at what was in the drawers.

"Sherlock! What the bloody hell are you doing?" John asked as he stood in the doorway with a gaping expression.

Sherlock turned to John and then back to the drawer he was shuffling through. The underwear drawer.

"Um, nothing. Nothing at all." Sherlock smiled in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. "Found anything?"

"No, it's just your average house, Sherlock. We should have known she wouldn't hide anything in here."

"That is where you are wrong, John. Look at the floor."

John did what Sherlock said and found papers across the carpet.

"She keeps the rest of the house clean, but not the bedroom. Guests rarely go into this room so they wouldn't find all this mess. And she must not like having male visitors around either as she had declined Reginald's advances and she does not dress in skimpy outfits." Sherlock explained. "It is rather a very a good hiding place."

Sherlock and John pushed the unwanted papers aside to find something that would aid them and it was the ex-army doctor who discovered something very interesting. A scrapbook. John opened it without alerting Sherlock of his discovery and looked at the pages. Snippets of articles from numerous newspapers, photos of warehouses, offices and several other places, the most familiar place being the pool. John flicked through the pages and once he turned to one page in particular, a piece of paper folded neatly fell to the floor. John picked it up off of the ground, placed the scrapbook under his arm and unfolded the paper. It was a list of names.

_Juliet, Anna, Eloise, Debbie, Elizabeth, Amanda, Fiona... __Evelyn._

There were around fifteen names on the list, only three of them being familiar to John. 'Evelyn' was written separate from the rest as if it was special. Sherlock noticed that his friend had not only found the list, but also a book that snuggly fit under John's arm.

"What is that?"

Sherlock stalked over to John and pulled the scrapbook from under his arm. He did not flinch however; he still had an interest in the list of names. Sherlock opened the scrapbook and the same feeling came to him as it had done to John. The photos made Sherlock feel sick, knowing that they were places of crime. The grim look of each warehouse, the corrupt aura of each office, the nostalgia of the pool.

"John, let's go. I need to get back to that hair extension experiment." Sherlock said, turning on his heel to leave the bedroom. He could no longer stand this house.

But Sherlock was not leaving as fast as he tripped over something and he planted face down into the carpet. He got up with finesse, brushing the invisible dirt off his clothing. He looked at what he had tripped over. It was a metal box without a lid and inside were files placed orderly. Sherlock retrieved one of them and it was clearly labelled as 'Debbie.' Sherlock read the contents. Birth certificates, job and school records, a curriculum vitae. It was all there. Everything a person would obviously need. Sherlock then took out another file this time labelled as 'Elizabeth'. The same papers were there, just with different information. Evelyn had created all the aliases, given them all evidence that they were genuine. It had been done to every file that sat in the box, except one. Sherlock opened it and nothing was inside. Nothing at all.

Sherlock aligned the files back into their original arrangement and stood up, picking up the box as he did so. John tucked the list of names into his jacket and collected the scrapbook that lay on the floor from when Sherlock had tumbled. The pair exited the bedroom, the house and then finally the gloomy and desolate street. John asked Sherlock questions as they walked to find a cab but Sherlock was in his mind palace whilst he carried the metal box in his hands.

The empty file was labelled 'Evelyn Stowe'.


	19. Chapter 19 - The Woman with No Identity

It was nearly midnight when Evelyn returned home, the entire street shrouded in darkness with only spots of light protruding from the street lamps that were situated across the pavement. Kitty would surely be in bed so there was little point in waiting in the obscurity for the journalist to open the door in her tired state only to give back the key that she had so politely agreed to look after. Evelyn trudged to a plant pot only a few paces away, yawning as she did so. In the soil, there sat a dirty key that would allow Evelyn entrance to her home.

After the sleepy and overworked Evelyn closed the door behind her, embracing the warmth within her home, she felt as if something was out of place, which was odd because she had not left the hallway to examine other rooms. She could smell the faint cologne that was certainly not hers. Such a scent was not accustomed to being present in this house.

As Evelyn moved further down the hallway, she almost automatically spun her head towards her bedroom as it was the room she cared about the most or at least what was stored in the room. Entering her sleeping quarters, the smell of cologne increased in strength and nearly became unbearable.

The first thing the woman noticed was the decorative skull that she had gotten from Mexico many years ago. It was not where she had left it and was instead on her bed, in a position that suggested it had been thrown. Someone obviously didn't appreciate art when they saw it. Evelyn was then distracted by shining car headlights that beamed into the room from the window which caused her attention to turn to her open white wardrobe. She sauntered over to it and cautiously opened the door further to reveal her wonderful dresses she had hidden away. Everything seemed fine until further inspection. Her forest green lace dress had been moved across the rail because it hung in between two dresses that it shouldn't have been in between.

Then, the realisation had dawned on Evelyn. Someone had been in the house when she was gone, that was clear, but nothing was taken.

Or was something taken?

Evelyn swivelled around, hoping to see the occupied spot where she had left the metal box. But it was gone.

Evelyn cursed to herself, panic running through her head. She needed that box! How else was she supposed to create these identities she needed without the proof they were even real? The woman grabbed her curled hair in anger, knowing that she was already falling apart without Juliet, Anna, Eloise, Debbie and Elizabeth. Forget about the time of night. She needed to wake Kitty Riley up now and demand answers. She had been the only one with the key and even promised to occasionally take a look outside to see if the house was secure. She either betrayed Evelyn, breaking the trust she had in her or just be so stupid not to realise that the house had been broken into. Evelyn stormed out of the house, almost slipping over the decorative skull she had dropped onto the floor.

* * *

The abrupt, resounding knocking of the door woke Kitty up in an instant. She checked the time that sat beside her in the form of an alarm clock and realised that it was nearly one o'clock. Who could possibly be knocking at this time of night? She departed from her bed and made her way to the front door, opening it to see Evelyn furious and distressed.

"Fiona, what are you doing at this time of night?" Kitty asked listlessly, forgetting that perhaps she wanted her key back.

"My house. Someone went in there and robbed me." Evelyn replied bluntly. "You were the one who had the keys and there is no sign of forced entry."

"How did you get in the house to know that you were robbed?"

"I always keep spares, Kitty. Now, tell me."

Kitty rubbed her head to remember what happened in the afternoon and then sighed when she remembered that she had given the key to Sherlock, which he hadn't even returned. Kitty was about to lie to Evelyn to avoid her asking questions as to why Sherlock Holmes had been in her home but she wondered if Evelyn would press charges if she was told. It would be an ideal way for Kitty to get revenge on the man who tainted her reputation.

"Sherlock Holmes. He asked for the key, and knowing how sly that man can be, I gave it to him." Kitty explained. "I had no idea he'd take anything."

"Of course it was Sherlock. You clever man." Evelyn muttered to herself quietly.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." Evelyn faked a friendly smile. "Thank you for letting me know, Kitty. Just don't do it again."

Evelyn began to walk away like getting robbed by Sherlock Holmes was ordinary until Kitty called her name.

"Fiona, aren't you even going to call the police?"

"That won't be necessary. I think I can deal with the devious detective on my own."

Evelyn walked back to her own home leaving the journalist confused, wondering why Evelyn, or Fiona, was so relaxed about the situation.

* * *

"_Okay, so how are you going to do this exactly, Jim?" Evelyn asked as the car parked outside the Tower of London. _

"_In the same way I do everything." Jim replied, putting his cap on his head. He really did look like a mere tourist._

"_With grace and precision." Evelyn got something out of her bag with haste. "And gum."_

_Jim smiled with pure glee at his assistant as he took the gum from her hand and settled it on his tongue, ready to chew. _

_The two of them just sat there for a few seconds, with Jim staring at the ordinary people through the window, before Evelyn realised that she hadn't heard the door open. _

"_Jim, are you going to go or are you just going to sit here?" Evelyn asked, making sure to not come across as rude. _

"_Not yet. I am waiting for the right time to strike." Jim pulled his gaze towards his assistant who sat beside him. "Do you like children?" _

_Evelyn raised her eyebrows to the random question but answered it nether the less._

"_Yes, I love children. I used to look after my niece. Well, she wasn't really my niece but –."_

_She was interrupted by a small sigh from Jim followed by his swift exit from the car. She watched him merge into the crowd of several tourists before entering the Tower of London with them. _

_As she sat in the car, she thought about how their relationship had evolved because in the recent weeks, Evelyn and Jim had normal conversations, of course, not too normal. This was James Moriarty she was talking to, so the odd mention of murder or kidnapping was common. It made her feel like she had found a friend, maybe not the best friend, but they were far from just the employee and employer. Through all the crime Jim delved in, she didn't really care anymore. She understood that it was what Jim did and nothing could stop him from doing it. He was a complete psychopath and it didn't matter how many strait jackets he was put in, how many therapists he saw or how many drugs were injected into his system. The man would never change._

* * *

"Anna Jules, twenty-four, hairdresser. Juliet Barton, twenty-five, librarian." John read out from the files. "Eloise Scharlemann, also twenty-five, professional taxidermist."

"Perhaps she could stuff that pigeon that has just excreted over that man's head." Sherlock said as he looked down at Baker Street to see a man curse up to the sky.

John chuckled a bit at Sherlock's humorous observation of the world outside. It was early in the morning, like always. The tea had been made, the toast had been eaten and the two flatmates were dressed, which was surprising because Sherlock had been recently spending much more time wrapped in his duvet rather than his clothes.

"Do you think Evelyn has realised we have these files?" John asked, raising an eyebrow as he looked at photos of stuffed animals for Eloise's portfolio.

"I assume so. I expect either another cliché visit or a murder soon." Sherlock replied. He still watched the man on the street was now attempting to wipe the bird faeces off his jacket. "Both of which are very possible."

"Sherlock, what _exactly_ is the significance of these files?" John questioned. "Is Evelyn afraid of her identity being revealed?"

Sherlock breathed out and grew bored of the man covered in bird faeces and pulled away from the window to sit by the fireplace.

"She has no identity."

John looked at his friend; his eyes focused straight ahead, his dark curls covering his face and his fingers resting below his chin.

"Remember what Kitty said. He was pretending to care about someone who didn't even exist." Sherlock began. "If she didn't want her identity to be revealed, why use her real name when she was playing the part of Evelyn Stowe, the failed actress, the dead television presenter? One would assume that would be a foolish move but no, she isn't afraid of her identity being revealed because she has no proof of it."

"Are you saying she isn't Evelyn Stowe?" John was trying to understand what Sherlock was saying.

"Oh no, John. She is Evelyn Stowe; however there is nothing to prove that she is."

"Why is that then?"

For once, Sherlock had no idea. He didn't have the answer to his friend's question. Instead of replying, Sherlock looked at the suspicious scrapbook they had found the previous day. He opened it and took brief looks at the images before finally stopping when he came across a blank page.

"So, this is when Evelyn stopped working for Moriarty." He said. "She recorded every location. Here's the pool, the Tower of London, the Bank of England, Pentonville Prison and then the place of Moriarty's trial."

John watched Sherlock's slim, pale fingers point at the several images that adorned the pages.

"But then it ends." Sherlock concluded with a shut closing of the scrapbook.

"And that means…?"

"It means that whatever Moriarty did to make Evelyn hate him, it was done after the trial." Sherlock answered.

John scoffed. "I'm surprised she even lasted that long by his side."

"It's not that surprising, really." Sherlock ran his fingers over the scrapbook, almost pulling off the loose bits of paper that had been stuck onto the front. "She cared about him because he cared for her. The only difference was that he was just acting. Acting so she would stay by him no matter what."


	20. Chapter 20 - The Mean Friend

**A/N: Oooh, chapter twenty! I expected i'd give up with this story by now, but obviously I doubted myself. **

**Sorry for what I think is a short chapter, but i've had this written and saved for just about a week and I thought it was about time I upload it. **

**I hope you enjoy. :)**

* * *

Evelyn sat alone in a randomly chosen verdant park, which was flourishing with parents and children alike, the odd few students sitting on the grass conversing and occasionally taking a glance over to their phones. It was something Evelyn never did. She did not have many friends to talk to as she lost contact with them when she met Jim Moriarty. She was forced to stop going to parties, clubs and even just going to the local café to meet up with them because she was so buried in work. It was like the consulting criminal cut off her social life without lifting a finger. Glancing over phones was something she always did however. Moriarty being the secretive man he was didn't really chit chat with his clients, only the important ones did he make an exception. He had a dependable and punctual assistant to talk to the rest for him. Therefore, Evelyn was always on her phone, assuring the clients that their jobs were going to be done as Moriarty's focus was more on Sherlock Holmes than his high-paying customers.

Evelyn continued to watch as the people mingled with each other, the parents gossiping just about anything, the children arguing over who hides and who seeks and the students talking aimlessly about how hard this year was going to be for them.

"Hey, you want to play?" a small voice asked from in front of Evelyn's feet.

She looked down to a girl about seven, her hair in pigtails and a little cute button nose complemented her round face. Her freckles were bright and just made the small girl even more adorable.

"No, I'm fine thank you." Evelyn replied politely. She did so love children, but now was not the time to play.

"My mum and dad broke up as well." The little girl suddenly said, sitting down beside her new found friend. "I bet he was a real meanie."

"I'm sorry?" Evelyn asked in confusion.

"You look like your boyfriend broke up with you. You probably deserve better."

"Oh no, I haven't had a boyfriend in quite some time actually." Evelyn chuckled, thinking about a dirty-blond haired boy of about twelve.

"How about a friend? Like, a mean friend?"

Evelyn looked down at the girl beside her. She seemed genuinely concerned and Evelyn found contentment as she sat beside the child. She never talked about her 'mean friend' to anyone because they'd just ask questions and end up dead the next week if those questions had been answered truthfully.

"I did have a friend. He wasn't very nice." Evelyn started. "He made me do things I didn't want to do. And when I said no for the first time, he destroyed my whole world. Let it crumble to the ground."

"What did he do?"

"He made a phone call."

The girl laughed a bit. The thought of a phone call destroying someone's world didn't seem very plausible to her. But, Evelyn joined in and giggled with the young girl, trying to uphold the friendship that had just been created, that was until her mother beckoned her over to leave.

"I need to go now. It was really nice meeting you funny lady."

With that, the girl got off of the bench and ran towards her mother who stood by the exit of the park. But before they left, the girl gave a small wave to Evelyn and the woman waved back.

It was so easy to speak to children, that is if you liked children and they liked you back. Fortunately, Evelyn was a natural. She was the perfect choice if you wanted a child to feel comfortable, regardless of their circumstances.

* * *

Sherlock stood over the dead body Lestrade had tried to get him interested in, but his plan wasn't working. The consulting detective was irked over the fact he hadn't had a visit from Evelyn and when Lestrade was found standing by the dead body in the morgue, Sherlock got his hopes up only to find it was an easy case.

"It was the wife, obviously." Sherlock began. "He is tanned; recently back from the Maldives judging from the photos in this camera. For business purposes or at least that's what his wife believed even though his job is unimportant and does not require travel. Whilst there, he took his wedding ring off, the pale outline of a ring shown on his finger, to be with his mistress as seen here, half-naked on the beach. Surely that is not his wife because look at the man. For a woman like that, she'd prefer a much hunkier man not some layabout like this."

Sherlock gestured to the body as he held the camera in his hand which had the scandalous, shocking and shameful images displayed on the screen. Naturally, John tried to take a peek but his friend tore the camera away to save him the embarrassment and continue his detailed and, most probably, correct deduction.

"He returns, but leaves his camera out for his wife to find and she discovers the amateur pornography which it contains. Furious, she decides to dispose of her cheating husband, but she is foolish with the knife and only slashes his thigh so instead, she pushes him off the rail of their balcony where he falls to his death as shown by the marks on his back that could only be made by such a fall."

Lestrade, John and Molly stared at Sherlock with astonishment as if it was the first time they had seen him show his high intellect and skill in deducting complete strangers. He was truly an amazing man that Scotland Yard couldn't possibly live without. He was just like Mrs. Hudson - if he left, London would fall.

"Well, I'll get my team to pay her a visit straight away." Lestrade said, interrupting the silence that fell upon the morgue. "Thanks, Sherlock."

Lestrade left, leaving the two men and a lonesome female standing by the deceased man.

"So, anything new about that woman or are you still needing help?" Molly asked, zipping the body bag back up whilst Sherlock sat gracefully by a microscope with John peering over his shoulder.

"Not anything new that you'd need to know." Sherlock answered before noticing Molly was about to leave the room in disappointment. "Coffee please, Molly. You've made some enough times to know how I like it."

Molly nodded weakly, starting to remember what an amazing _and _rude man Sherlock was. But, he did say 'please' which was something.

"Could you pass me those tweezers, John?" Sherlock asked, not taking his eyes off of his work.

John searched for the metal tweezers underneath the rest of the implements that rested in a disorganised fashion. He eventually found them and placed them in his friend's hand which was outstretched in waiting.

"Just so you know, I won't be home tonight." John explained, staring indefinitely at his friend who twitched at the ex-army doctor's promised absence. "I met this woman when I was out. She's really nice, really pretty as well."

"Perfect." Sherlock responded in a sarcastic tone. "Another one to add to the list of failed girlfriends."

John shook his head with a chuckle. Maybe Sherlock would be wrong about this one. He better be wrong because it was just by luck that he found such a beautiful woman on his way back to 221B and it was also rather unexpected that John had pulled away from the current case for a while so he could live a little.

He couldn't help but re-live the moment when Sherlock supposedly fell from the roof of St. Barts and landed as a bloody mess. It felt so real in his dreams, as if it was foreshadowing the future.

John was unaware that Sherlock felt this way too, but unlike the doctor, Sherlock was intrigued and was suffering with escalating interest in the woman who turned up at the flat not too long ago, now seeming it was only yesterday. Her curled hair, her round face and her pretty dresses clouded Sherlock's mind, making it difficult to enter his complex mind palace without visioning her. All he needed to do was find out what she wanted him to know, about her association with Jim Moriarty. He wanted to know the nature of their relationship, why she left her him after his trial and, most importantly, why she had no name to her face.

This wasn't about the three murders and Anderson's embarrassing dilemma anymore. This was about _her._


	21. Chapter 21 - The Love for a Psychopath

**A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. I feel it's a more detailed and emotional chapter than recent ones. Tell me what you think and please enjoy. :)**

* * *

_She was seated right in the corner of the court room to avoid any temptation to intervene the trial she was attending. She waited impatiently for Jim to emerge from the depths of the court house to plead his innocence like she expected him to, but he probably had something up his sleeve no doubt. Then, she saw the dark hair of the Irishman finally come up to stand in between two police officers. His hands were behind his back, tied effortlessly with metal rings, but he still looked delinquent and crafty in his grey suit. Westwood, of course. Jim stood in the dock, motionless until a blond police officer approached him to remove him from his metal bonds. Evelyn could see Jim's lips move to the utter of a few words and she gawked at the officer, her hand reaching into his pocket to pull out a small strip of white gum. He stretched his tongue out so the blonde woman could put the gum on it as if it was a tray. Strangely, Evelyn felt a rush of jealously as Jim gave his signature smirk before the officer walked away. Evelyn always had his gum, always gave him his gum. In fact, she had his gum in her bag like she always did, as if he was always going to come to her if he was in need of fast refreshment. So, when Jim asked someone else to do the honour, Evelyn felt as though he was unaware of her existence. _

_Maybe Irene was right all along. He never cared and never would. The simple conversations they had together were meaningless; the dresses he gave her were worthless. Maybe Evelyn should just leave Jim to fight his own battles, without his dutiful assistant. _

_Evelyn was about to get up out of her seat, gathering her bag up off of the floor, but then she met her boss' eyes. It was brief gaze that he gave her, followed by a wink and a smirk much more charming than he had given the blonde woman. Evelyn sat back down as Jim returned his focus forward. There was nothing to be jealous about. _

_A while passed before Sherlock Holmes made his grand entrance and the court watched in silence as they listened to what he had to say. He was a very handsome man, with prominent cheekbones and dark curls. It was the first time Evelyn had seen his pale face, the face she had only seen in the newspapers. The last time they were in the same room together, he had his back to her whilst she aimed a sniper rifle to his friend's chest. It was such a pleasant moment - for Jim that was. Evelyn glanced at Jim for a few seconds, noticing his attention was all on Sherlock. He was obsessed and no wonder, the man appeared to be a genius. He began to avoid 'stupid' questions about how long he'd known Jim, before then explaining how the mastermind tried to blow him up. He knew a court room well, it seemed and he basked in the power it gave him to express his intellect. _

_He then began to deduce the jury, exclaiming what their jobs were, who was having the affair and noting down that they had all indulged in some biscuits. The man was spectacular and Evelyn almost found herself fixated with his intelligent words, yearning for him to deduce her. The judge, however, interrupted her train of thought by lecturing Sherlock, warning him about showing off. _

_That was when Sherlock was escorted for doing exactly what the judge told him not to do – display his intellectual prowess. Jim was escorted as well, to be alone in a dull and bland cell, locked shut by a large, hard door. Evelyn then realised that Jim never mentioned why he broke into the Tower of London or why he didn't defend himself in court. He had a plan, a plan he never told her. All he said was what he was going to do regarding the break-ins, how he was going to open the most secure places in London, hence the reason why she took the photos so she could remember the moment. His obsession with this game with Sherlock Holmes excluded her, but the game in question was important to Jim and she didn't want to get in the way._

Sherlock saw John get into the cab, with his auburn-haired date, from his perch by the window. He felt slightly happy for John, finally finding time to be with someone, but the fact that Sherlock would be alone for the night was upsetting. He loved the doctor's company, even though his sarcastic remarks suggested otherwise. Sherlock thought about spending some time with Mrs. Hudson before realising she too had gone out. With friends supposedly, but perhaps this was an excuse to go out with a new elderly lover.

Sherlock, lonesome in the flat, grabbed his violin like usual and began to play, immersing in the beautiful tune of Johann Sebastian Bach. He started to sway his hips to the music, gracefully pacing the room step by step with his eyes closing slowly as he moved with elegance and poise to every sound the bow made in accordance to the instrument. It was all but silence in the flat, with only the captivating composition emanating from the violin Sherlock played so perfectly, not missing a note. But the presence of the room was not that of just one person. From the doorway of 221B, stood Evelyn, admiring the musical prowess of the consulting detective. Sherlock, with his eyes still closed, knew she was in the room and was not John returning for condoms or some other awkward item he needed in case he got lucky. The sociopath played a few minutes longer, glad he had an audience so engaged with the music, before finally ending the composition with a bow in Evelyn's direction.

"You play well, Sherlock. Anyone who plays Bach so wonderfully must be a rather talented musician." She complimented, slowly making her way into the flat.

"Thank you." Sherlock responded, returning his violin to its resting place. "Tea?"

"Coffee. Black. Two sugars."

Sherlock eyed Evelyn with suspicion after discovering she had her coffee the same way he had his, but maybe it was just by pure chance.

"Moriarty liked Bach." Evelyn said, adjusting her hair in the mirror to make it prim. "Once he began to play me the violin concertos, I was enthralled."

"He had good taste." Sherlock replied, walking into the front room with two cups of black coffee with two sugars.

"Well, not to be vain, but he did choose me as his assistant." Evelyn boasted, taking a cup out of Sherlock's pale hand.

"Good taste in music, I meant." Sherlock corrected, giving the woman a cocky smile.

Evelyn chuckled at his comment. "It's nice to know that you doubt his decision somewhat."

"Oh no, I'm sure you were quite loyal to him."

Sherlock gestured to the seat on the left of the fireplace, but Evelyn rejected the offer and sat by the one closest to the windows. The consulting detective was struck with the feeling of déjà vu from when Moriarty came to visit him after his acquittal. He did the exact same thing.

"Certainly, Sherlock. I had to be loyal to him or else it would be my head on a stake or perhaps something a little more… glamorous." Evelyn blinked a few times before sighing. "But he's dead now. No use talking about _him. _Let's talk about _me._"

"Good idea. I am certain you know what you are missing."

"Yes, a metal box filled with exactly fifteen files containing the information of fifteen aliases." Evelyn glanced at the box that had been placed beside the desk as if she already knew it would be there. "You disappoint me, Sherlock. Never thought you'd be the one to steal."

"Then you obviously don't know me very well."

The sociopath put his coffee cup on the table beside him and wandered over to the box. Handing it Evelyn, he noticed a smile developing on her face as she looked down into her now retrieved possession.

"An empty box. Well played, Holmes." Evelyn looked up at Sherlock, who was emotionless. "Where are they?"

"Somewhere where you cannot find them, even with the use of cameras."

"Sherlock, I need them and I'm sure a lovely man like yourself would be so kind to return them to their rightful owner." Evelyn beguiled innocently.

"Why do you need them when you have Evelyn Stowe?" Sherlock asked, sitting back in his seat.

"You know why I cannot use that name."

"There's no proof that it's real."

"Well done! And why there's no proof… or haven't you figured that out yet?" Evelyn watched as Sherlock sipped silently at his coffee, to avoid admitting he didn't know the answer. "Aw, not so great are we now, Sherlock?"

"You make it difficult."

Evelyn leaned in towards her host, her hands wrapped around the cup that carried the untouched coffee. "I make it difficult because I know how much you like difficult. You boast yourself so high that you make yourself think you can solve any case to perfection when really you make the smallest mistakes such as the one where you thought my victims died in order of importance." She leaned back, watching as Sherlock gaped at her words. "I'm sorry to say, but those people were not of any importance to this game."

Sherlock smiled at the clever work that Evelyn had done - tricking him to think the answer was more complex than it really was.

"Congratulations. You fooled me." He finally said.

"Oh, I see. You can only realise the blatant obvious." Evelyn mocked.

"You're funny…" Sherlock sipped at his coffee again before continuing "… just like Moriarty."

Evelyn stopped laughing all of a sudden. Her brows furrowed in a mix of woe and irritation.

"Don't compare me to that man because I am not like him."

"Yes you are. You make snide comments, delivered sarcastically; you take everything for a joke. You can be very egotistical although that, as well, is in the aim of humour."

Evelyn stared at Sherlock with bitterness and displeasure from his precise deduction.

"Not to mention you both have an odd obsession with the clothing brand, Westwood. Of course, you never cared for such garments until he insisted you wear what he bought for you."

Evelyn felt tears escaping her eyes gradually after each truthful word Sherlock spoke.

"Talking about appearance, your lipstick. You wear very little make-up, no need. But you wear red lipstick specifically but you don't find it as a necessity because on occasion, you refrain from wearing it. You only wear it because perhaps Moriarty said it looked nice and you always wanted to please him."

The young woman moved her fingers gingerly around the cup as the sociopath continued to deduce her.

"You are a very confident woman with marvellous charismatic dexterity, yet you gave in to what _he_ wanted just so you could be the queen to the king."

Sherlock stood up, his glare piercing Evelyn who appeared suddenly inferior to the man who stood before her.

"You were in love with him… until you became him."

Just then, the door of 221B flew open wide to reveal John with a gleeful date by his side.

"Sherlock, this is Ma –" John paused at the sight of Evelyn who sat speechless, having been silenced by the words of Sherlock Holmes. They still had their eyes upon each other, both of them motionless.

"Don't worry, John." She said, composing herself with a few coughs and sniffles as she rose from her seat. "I was just leaving."

Evelyn quickly brushed past Sherlock, but he heard her utter a sentence before she left the flat in her resentful, cheerless and austere state into the night.

"You couldn't be more wrong about me, Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
